This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


APR  2^1924 


19  1924 
MAR  2     1925 
AUG  5      1925 


WAY  1  4  1929 
DEC   18 

^  81 
JtAY  S      1931 


2  7  193* 


MAY    51976 


iHAY  z  z  19; 

DEC  2  0  1943 


..-.- 


^ 


\ 


A  MAGNIFICENT  FARCE 

AND  OTHER  DIVERSIONS 
OF  A  BOOK-COLLECTOR 


BY 

A.  EDWARD  NEWTON 

AUTHOR  OF 
THE  AMENITIES  OF  BOOK-COLLECTING 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS 


/i  f  o   f  r* 
4   *  -1  ••*    -| 

JL  *J    .-J>    JL   tJ 


BOSTON 
THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY  PRESS 


COPYRIGHT,  1921,  BY  A.  EDWARD  NEWTON 

First  Impression,  September,  1921 
Second  Impression,  September,  1921 


TO 
WILLIAM  MAXWELL  SCOTT 

For  over  twenty-Jive  years  we  have  been 
yoked  to  the  same  plough,  and  if  we  have 
kept  the  furrow  straight,  it  is  because  we 
have  pulled  together. 


PURELY  PERSONAL 

BY  WAY  OF  INTRODUCTION 

IT  was  inevitable,  after  the  success  of  "The  Amen- 
ities of  Book-Collecting,"  that  its  author  should 
attempt  to  repeat  that  success,  and  —  You,  kind 
or,  it  may  be,  suspicious  reader,  shall  fill  up  that 
blank.  Whatever  your  verdict  may  be,  I  shall  accept 
it  unhesitatingly ;  for  one  never  knows,  one's  self, 
whether  a  piece  of  work,  or  sundry  pieces,  upon  which 
one  has  been  engaged  for  a  long  time,  have  merit  or 
not.  Our  little  quips  and  quiddities,  once  sponta- 
neous, after  having  been  written  in  pencil  on  odd 
scraps  of  paper,  and  typed  by  one's  secretary  in  her 
leisure  moments,  look  rather  feeble  when  the  galley 
proof  comes  in,  and  positively  silly  on  the  printed 
page.  This  is  a  risk  we  who  print  books  must  run. 
Nothing  venture,  nothing  have. 

Long  ago,  before  years  and  tobacco  had  destroyed 
a  voice  naturally  defective,  I  was  singing  cockney 
songs,  to  my  own  delight  but  to  the  qualified  enjoy- 
ment of  my  audience,  when  someone  turning  to  me 
remarked  :  "  Why,  I  had  no  idea  that  you  sang ! "  To 
which  Felix  Schelling,  not  then  enjoying  an  interna- 
tional reputation  as  a  scholar,  rejoined  slyly:  "I  am 
not  sure  that  he  does."  And  so  it  may  prove  to  be 
with  my  writing.  I  have  never  been  able  to  free  my 
mind  of  the  truth  of  that  remark  of  Gray's  :  "Any  fool 
may  write  a  valuable  book  by  chance,  if  he  will  only 


viii  PURELY  PERSONAL 

tell  us  what  he  heard  and  saw,  with  veracity."  Trol- 
lope  is  said  to  have  damaged  his  reputation  by  his 
confession  as  to  the  way  in  which  he  wrote;  at  the 
risk  of  utterly  destroying  mine,  I  want  to  say  that 
any  style  I  may  have  acquired  is  the  result  of  writing 
advertisements  of  electrical  apparatus  for  many  years. 
When  one  is  selling  a  page  of  writing,  one  receives,  I 
suppose,  as  much  as  five,  or  even  twenty-five  dollars 
a  page.  When  one  is  buying  a  page  of  advertising, 
one  pays  anywhere  from  one  hundred  to  five  thou- 
sand dollars  a  page !  The  discriminating  reader  will 
discover  upon  which  page  the  most  time  is  spent. 
Those  who  write  with  ease,  to  show  their  breeding, 
forget  the  last  line  of  the  couplet, —  usually  attrib- 
uted to  Byron,  that  "easy  writing's  damned  hard 
reading." 

When  one  is  the  victim  of  a  practical  joke,  one  tries 
to  forget  it ;  so,  when  several  universities  tagged  me 
and  gave  me  the  legal  right  to  append  certain  letters 
to  my  name,  I  said  to  myself :  "  Here  is  a  fine  oppor- 
tunity for  you  to  make  a  fool  of  yourself ;  disappoint 
your  friends  by  not  embracing  it."  And  so  it  is  that 
I  was  soon  able  to  break  my  friends  of  the  habit  of 
giving  me  a  title,  all  except  a  certain  head  waiter  and 
my  barber,  who  seemed  to  feel  that  the  size  of  their 
tips  depended  upon  the  loudness  or  frequency  with 
which  they  called  me  "Doctor." 

Only  yesterday  it  happened  that,  while  I  was  sit- 
ting in  the  reading-room  of  my  club,  a  page  entered 
and  called  out,  "Dr.  Newton  !"  I  went  on  with  my 
newspaper,  and  he  spoke  again:  "Dr.  A.  Edward 


PURELY  PERSONAL  k 

Newton!"  He  would  be  denied  no  longer,  and, 
looking  at  him  guiltily,  I  was  told  I  was  wanted  on 
the  telephone.  Crossing  the  room,  I  experienced 
sundry  difficulties.  I  thought  I  knew  who  was  call- 
ing me  —  my  friend  Hawley  McLanahan,  the  archi- 
tect, the  merits  of  whose  Scotch  make  one  reluctant 
to  break  with  him ;  but  this  must  be  stopped  at  any 
cost.  Entering  the  telephone  booth,  I  took  up  the 
receiver,  and  without  any  preliminaries  I  requested 
him  to  go  to  the  devil,  and  promptly. 

Reader !  have  you  ever  heard  a  lady  go  into  an 
apoplexy  ?  Well,  that  is  the  sound  I  heard  from  the 
other  end  of  the  wire.  Of  course  I  administered 
what  relief  I  could,  and  prostrated  myself  before  her 
—  a  difficult  thing  to  do  hi  a  telephone  booth ;  and 
finally,  she  being  somewhat  restored,  I  asked  to  what 
I  owed  the  pleasure  of  this  call. 

"Why,"  replied  the  lady,  "I  hoped  you  would  con- 
sent to  make  a  few  remarks  at  a  *  Current  Events ' 
luncheon  we  are  having  for  the  benefit  of  the  starv- 
ing in  China.  Christopher  Morley  had  promised  to 
come,  but  he  has  met  with  an  accident."  l 

"Why  don't  you  get  TomDaly  ?"  linquired ;  "he 's 
worth  a  dozen  of  us." 

"He's  in  New  England  lecturing,"  was  the  reply. 
.  "I  see,"  I  said,  "I'm  the  last  chance.  I  can't  pos- 
sibly tell  a  lady  to  go  to  the  devil  a  second  time.  I  '11 
come ;  and  your  Current  Eventers  will  wish  that  they 
were  starving  with  the  Chinese." 

And  so  it  proved. 

1  Mr.  Morley  wishes  it  known  that  his  hoof  is  broken,  not  cloven. 


x  PURELY  PERSONAL 

May  I  relate  how  the  "Amenities"  restored  to  me 
a  long-lost  sweetheart  ?  It  came  about  in  this  way. 
I  received  one  day  in  my  mail  a  letter  from  a  lady, 
thus  conceived :  - 

DEAR  SIR, —  I  am  wondering  whether  "The 
Amenities  of  Book-Collecting  and  Kindred  Affec- 
tions" would  preclude  the  exchange  of  our  handi- 
work !  If  not,  I  should  be  glad  to  forward  copies  of 
(*  The  Four  Horsemen  of  the  Apocalypse  "  and  "  Mare 
Nostrum  "  in  exchange  for  the  "  Amenities  of  Book- 
Collecting,"  some  chapters  of  which  I  greatly  enjoyed 
when  they  appeared  in  the  "Atlantic  Monthly."  With 
kind  regards  to  those  of  your  family  who  remember 
me,  I  am,  very  sincerely  your  old-time  Rahway  [N.J.] 
neighbor  on  the  other  side  of  the  fence, 

CHARLOTTE  BREWSTER  JORDAN. 

Of  course,  Lottie  Brewster !  We  had  known  each 
other  intimately  as  children ;  how  stupid  of  me  not  to 
have  remembered,  when  I  had  been  reading  every- 
where of  her  translation  of  a  novel  selling  as  no  novel 
has  ever  sold  before. 

I  despatched  the  "Amenities"  forthwith,  saying 
that  I  was  receiving  far  more  than  I  gave, —  which, 
indeed,  was  the  case,  for  the  inscriptions  put  the  vol- 
umes high  in  the  "association"  class, —  and  upon  my 
next  visit  to  New  York  I  called  on  my  old-time  friend 
and  we  had  a  delightful  hour  together.  In  the  course 
of  our  chat  over  old  times,  I  said:  "Lottie,  perhaps 
you  can  tell  me  what  has  become  of  my  friend  Jennie 


XI 


M .  She  was  my  first  love.  I  remember  our 

fond  parting  when,  as  a  boy  of  thirteen,  I  went  away 
to  school.  I  remember,  too,  returning,  still  a  boy,  to 
find  my  sweetheart  a  young  woman,  with  dresses 
much  longer  than  those  young  women  are  wearing 
nowadays,  and  quite  indifferent  to  me.  I  tried  to 
awaken  in  her  some  spark  of  the  old  sentiment,  but 
failed  and  knew  that  my  heart  was  broken.*' 

"Why,"  said  Lottie,  "Jennie  is  living  in  New  York. 
I  see  her  occasionally.  She  is  rich,  good-looking,  and 
a  widow.  I  am  sure  she  would  be  glad  to  see  you." 

"I  know  nothing  about  that,"  I  said;  "but  I  am 
coming  to  New  York  very  soon,  to  make  an  address 
at  the  Grolier  Club  on  William  Blake.  It  is  a  meet- 
ing of  woman  artists  or  woman  sculptors,  or  some- 
thing. There  will  be  tea  afterwards  and  cake;  in- 
deed, that  will  be  the  most  enjoyable  part  of  the 
affair.  I  shall  be  the  only  man,  and  for  ten  minutes 
a  hero.  I  want  Jennie  to  witness  my  triumph." 

So  it  was  arranged,  and  a  few  weeks  later  the  party 
came  off. 

While  I  was  reading  my  paper,  I  observed  just  in 
front  of  me  a  demure  little  lady,  exquisitely  gowned, 
her  hair  rather  more  than  touched  with  gray ;  and  at 
the  end  of  my  address  I  went  forward. 

"Jennie,"  I  said,  putting  my  arm  around  her. 

"O  Eddie,  stop !"  she  cried,  just  as  she  did  at  part- 
ing more  than  forty  years  before. 

Like  causes  still  produce  like  effects.  Invitations 
and  counter-invitations  followed  in  quick  succession ; 
and  Carolyn  Wells,  hearing  of  what  was  going  on, 


rii  PURELY  PERSONAL 

signaled,  "  Wait  a  minute  till  I  change  my  frock ;  I  'm 
from  Rahway,  too." 

And  Carolyn  Wells's  presence  resulted  in  such 
goings-on  that  I  began  to  wonder  whether  the  by- 
product of  authorship  was  not  the  best  part  of  it. 

And  out  of  the  shadow  of  the  years  long  past  rose 
Van  Antwerp,  formerly  Willie,  also  of  Rahway,  my 
oldest  friend,  who,  almost  fifty  years  ago,  was  always 
to  be  found  playing  in  my  back-yard  when  I  was  not 
playing  in  his.  Tired  of  beating  and  being  beaten  up 
in  Wall  Street,  he  had  retired  with  the  substantial 
fragments  of  several  fortunes,  to  spend  his  declining 
years  (and  may  they  be  many)  in  content  —  and 
California,  to  which  he  invited  me. 

In  the  midst  of  the  renewal  of  old  associations  and 
the  making  of  a  host  of  new  acquaintances,  I  dis- 
covered that  I  was  not  in  very  robust  health.  This 
is  not  my  own  discovery.  I  paid  a  physician  a  hand- 
some fee  for  making  it.  His  advice  was :  "  Go  slow. 
You  have  been  pelting  along  for  forty  years;  it's 
time  to  relax.  Let  someone  else  do  your  work.  You 
have  a  hearty  son  in  business  —  let  him  work ;  and 
your  partner.  He  impressed  me  as  a  very  forceful 
fellow ;  he  will  probably  be  glad  to  have  his  own  way 
a  little  more  than  he  can  when  you  are  around.  Give 
him  his  head.  It  is  a  great  mistake  you  business  men 
make  of  thinking  that  no  one  can  take  your  place. 
I  have  no  doubt  that  there  are  half  a  dozen  men  in 
your  office  who  can  do  your  work  better  than  you  do. 
How  about  smoking,"  he  continued;  "how  many 
cigars?" 


PURELY  PERSONAL  xiii 

To  this  I  replied:  "Doctor,  there  are  some  things 
too  sacred  for  words,  there  are  some  things  that  men 
do  not  tell  even  their  wives ;  but,  in  point  of  fact,  I 
have  always  smoked  in  moderation,  never  more  than 
one  cigar  at  a  time ;  three  after  breakfast,  four  after 
lunch—" 

"That  will  do;  that  accounts  for  much.  We  will 
omit  the  cigars  after  breakfast  entirely,  and  hereafter 
your  limit  will  be  one  after  lunch  and  one  after 
dinner;  on  holidays,  birthdays,  and  the  like,  you 
may  smoke  two  after  dinner  —  mild  ones.  No  more 
excesses  of  any  kind.  Do  not  run  for  trains,  and  do 
not  climb  steps  unnecessarily.  What  exercise  do 
you  take?" 

"Very  little,"  I  replied,  "I  am  of  Joe  Chamberlain's 
opinion  that  to  walk  downstairs  in  the  morning  and 
upstairs  at  night  is  enough  exercise  for  any  gentle- 
man." 

"A  little  extreme,"  said  my  physician,  "but  not 
bad  advice  for  you ;  and  when  you  sit,  keep  your  feet 
up." 

"On  the  mantelpiece?"  I  inquired. 

"I  said  no  excesses,"  replied  the  physician;  "the 
table  will  do.  Lessen  the  pull  on  your  heart-muscle. 
Do  not  play  more  than  nine  holes  of  golf  on  a  flat 
course." 

"How  about  the  nineteenth  hole  ?"  I  said. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "with  whiskey  at  twenty  dollars 
a  bottle,  you  will  not  be  likely  to  play  that  hole  to 
excess.  You  do  not  look  as  if  you  ever  had.  Don't 
worry,  avoid  excitement,  and  keep  your  mind  occu- 


xiv  PURELY  PERSONAL 

pied.  Take  up  reading.  Didn't  someone  tell  me 
that  you  had  written  a  book  ?  Write  another  one,  a 
long  one,  and  then  go  to  Europe,  where  the  criticisms 
of  it  will  not  annoy  you.  My  prophecy  is  that  you 
will  live  to  be  a  disagreeable  old  man.  Take  these 
pills  three  times  a  day,  and  come  to  see  me  in  a 
month.  Good-morning." 

And  as  I  exited,  another  victim  entered,  and  was 
received  with  the  same  sympathetic  interest. 

"  This  is  just  what  the  doctor  ordered,"  I  said,  as  I 
rolled  away  from  his  door  in  my  motor.  I  sat  back, 
put  my  feet  up,  and  tried  to  feel  a  superannuated 
man,  and  made  a  failure  of  it.  "Let  someone  else 
do  your  work!"  What  music  was  in  these  words! 
"Write  a  book!"  What  fun!  "Go  to  Europe!" 
more  fun !  I  always  said  I  was  lucky,  and  for  once 
my  friends  agree  with  me. 

I'm  off! 

A.  EDWARD  NEWTON. 


CONTENTS 

I.  A  MAGNIFICENT  FARCE  1 

II.  ON  COMMENCING  AUTHOR 33 

III.  LUCK         .       . 56 

IV.  WHAT  Is  THE  MATTER  WITH  THE  BOOKSHOP?  .        .  73 
V.  A  SLOGAN  FOR  BOOKSELLERS 91 

VI.  "  'T  is  NOT  IN  MORTALS  TO  COMMAND  SUCCESS  "  .  109 

VII.  MEDITATIONS  ON  A  QUARTO  HAMLET  .  .  .124 

VIII.  WALT  WHITMAN  .  .  . 140 

IX.  "20"        .        .        .        .....        •        •  160 

X.  LIVING  TWENTY-FIVE  HOURS  A  DAY  .  .  .  178 

XI.  A  SANE  VIEW  OF  WILLIAM  BLAKE  .  .  .  .  196 
XII.  MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON  .  .  . 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"URIZEN" Frontispiece 

CARD  OF  ADMISSION  TO  THE  TRIAL  OF  WARREN  HASTINGS  .  12 

TRIAL  OF  WARREN  HASTINGS  IN  WESTMINSTER  HALL  .      .  16 

TITLE  OF  "LETTERS  FROM  SIMPKIN  THE  SECOND "  ...  23 

WARREN  HASTINGS  OF  DAYLESFORD  HOUSE,  ESQUIRE  .      .  30 

REPRODUCTION  FROM  A  WHITMAN  MANUSCRIPT,  USED  BY 

A.  E.  N.  AS  A  CHRISTMAS  CARD,  1907     .      .      .  __    .      .  38 

PARODY  OF  A  FAMOUS  POEM,  BY  CHRISTOPHER  MORLEY    .  42 

FRANCIS  B.  GUMMERE 44 

TITLE  OF  SKELTON'S  "  PITHY,  PLEASAUNT  AND  PROFITABLE 

WORKS" 60 

TITLE  OF  " COLIN  CLOUTS  COME  HOME  AGAIN"  .      ...  61 

TITLE  OF  SUCKLING'S  "FRAGMENTA  AUREA"     ....  63 

TITLE  OF  THOMAS  CAREW'S  POEMS 64 

DANIEL  DEFOE  IN  THE  PILLORY 64 

TITLE  OF  DEFOE'S  "JOURNAL  OF  THE  PLAGUE  YEAR"    .  65 

TITLE  OF  DEFOE'S  "MOLL  FLANDERS" 66 

THE  BUILDING  THAT   HOUSES  THE  PEPYSIAN  LIBRARY  IN 

CAMBRIDGE 68 

TITLE  OF  C.  MORLEY'S  "THE  EIGHTH  SIN"      .      .      .      .  69 

MAP  OF  ENGLAND  IN  COLORED  SILK 70 

TITLE  OF  PEPYS'S  "  MEMOIRES  RELATING  TO  THE  STATE  OF 

THE  ROYAL  NAVY  OF  ENGLAND 71 

FOUR  DISTINGUISHED  COLLECTORS 74 

PROF.  C.  B.  TINKER  MR.  W.  H.  ARNOLD 

MR.  R.  B.  ADAM  MR.  W.  F.  GABLE 


xviii  ILLUSTRATIONS 

TITLE  OF  DRINKWATER'S  "ABRAHAM  LINCOLN  "      ...     80 

CHRISTOPHER  MORLEY 86 

PORTRAIT  OF  DR.  JOHNSON,  BY  SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS  .      .     96 

TITLE  OF  HAWES'S  ACCOUNT  OF  THE  LATE  DR.   GOLD- 
SMITH'S ILLNESS,  ETC. 97 

JOSEPH  PENNELL     .     .     .     .      . 106 

TITLE  OF  KIPLING'S  "DEPARTMENTAL  DITTIES"  .  .  .  108 
OLIVER  GOLDSMITH .  .  .112 

After  the  portrait  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds 

MASK  OF  DAVID  GARRICK,  BY  R.  E.  PINE  ....  141 
FACSIMILE  OF  LEIGH  HUNT'S  SONNET  TO  JOHN  KEATS  .  .116 
TITLE  OF  FIRST  EDITION  OF  KEATS'S  " POEMS"  .  .  .118 

JOHN  KEATS 118 

From  original  portrait  by  Severn 

FACSIMILE  OF  PAGE  OF  LETTER  FROM  B.  R.  HAYDON  TO 
MRS.  BROWNING 119 

DEATH-BED  PORTRAIT  OF  KEATS,  BY  JOSEPH  SEVERN     .   120 

FACSIMILE  OF  PAGE  OF  ORIGINAL  MS.  (IN  SHORTHAND)  OF 
KEATS'S  "£VE  OF  ST.  MARK" 121 

THE  GRAVES  OF  JOHN  KEATS  AND  JOSEPH  SEVERN  IN 
THE  PROTESTANT  CEMETERY  IN  ROME 122 

AUTOGRAPH  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH        123 

TITLE  OF  THE  "UNDATED"  QUARTO  HAMLET    ....   128 

JAMES  F.  DRAKE 136 

WALT  WHITMAN      .     . .     .     .   140 

WALT  WHITMAN 144 

From  a  bronze  plaque,  by  R.  Tait  McKenzie 

WHITMAN'S  HOUSE,  ON  MICKLE  ST.,  CAMDEN,  N.  J.    .      .   146 

From  an  etching  by  Joseph  Pennell 


ILLUSTRATIONS  xix 

TITLE  OF  FIRST  EDITION  OF  "LEAVES  OF  GRASS"     .  .   148 

TOMB  OF  WALT  WHITMAN  IN  HARLEIGH  CEMETERY  .  .156 

A  LONDON  "GROWLER"  DISSATISFIED  WITH  His  FARE  .    160 

SMITHFIELD  ENTRANCE  TO  SAINT  BARTHOLOMEW'S  HOS- 
PITAL  166 

TOMB  OF  RAHERE,  FOUNDER  OF  ST.  BARTHOLOMEW'S  HOS- 
PITAL   172 

GLORIA  DEI  (OLD  SWEDES')  CHURCH,  PHILADELPHIA   .      .   184 

ST.  PETER'S  CHURCH,  PHILADELPHIA 186 

CHRIST  CHURCH,  PHILADELPHIA         188 

THE  OLD  "WATER  WORKS"  IN  FAIRMOUNT  PARK,  PHILA- 
DELPHIA   -.  192 

OLD  BRIDGE  OVER  THE  THAMES  AT  SONNING        .     .      .149 

From  a  water-color  by  Frank  Craig 

WILLIAM  BLAKE 196 

From  frontispiece  to  Blair's  "Grave" 

SAMUEL,  SAUL  AND  THE  WITCH  OF  ENDOR 200 

TITLE  OF  BLAKE'S  "POETICAL  SKETCHES"       ....  203 

ORIGINAL  DRAWING  AND  ENGRAVED  PLATE  OF  ILLUSTRA- 
TION BY  BLAKE  FOR  MARY  WOLLSTONECRAFT'S  "ORIG- 
INAL STORIES" 204 

BLAKE'S  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  .      . 206 

STOTHARD'S  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 206 

ORIGINAL  DRAWING  AND  ENGRAVED  PLATE  OF  ILLUSTRA- 
TION BY  BLAKE  FOR  MARY  WOLLSTONECRAFT'S  "ORIG- 
INAL STORIES" 208 

PRELIMINARY  SKETCH  OF  DEATH'S  DOOR,  BY  WILLIAM 
BLAKE -  ....  210 

ENGRAVED  PLATE  OF  SAME,  BY  SCHIAVONETTI,  AFTER 
BLAKE'S  DESIGN  .  .210 


xx  ILLUSTRATIONS 

TITLE  OF  MARY  WOLLSTONECRAFT'S  ORIGINAL  STORIES, 
ETC 211 

WHEN  THE  MORNING  STARS  SANG  TOGETHER       ....  212 

Photograph  of  original  drawing  by  Blake 

ONE  OF  THE  FAMOUS  PLATES  IN  BLAKE'S  BOOK  OF  JOB  .  .  214 
THE  BEGGAR'S  OPERA 216 

Engraved  by  Blake  after  Hogarth's  painting 

COLORED  TITLE  OF  BLAKE'S  "AMERICA  —  A  PROPHECY"  .  220 
BOOK-PLATE  FROM  ONE  OF  BLAKE'S  LAST  WORKS  .  .  .221 
A  HANSOM  CAB  . 226 

ST.  PAUL'S  CATHEDRAL,  FROM  THE  BOTTOM  OF  LUDGATE 

HILL 234 

After  a  colored  etching  by  Luigi  Kasimir 

HOLYWELL  STREET 236 

From  a  pen  drawing  by  Joseph  Pennell 

BUNHILL  FIELDS  BURYING  GROUND 238 

JOHNSON  HOUSE,  17  GOUGH  SQUARE 242 

VISIT  OF  DR.  JOHNSON  AND  JAMES  BOSWELL  TO  FLORA  MAC- 
DONALD  .   244 


A  MAGNIFICENT  FARCE 

AND 

OTHER  DIVERSIONS  OF  A 
BOOK-COLLECTOR 


A  MAGNIFICENT  FARCE 


A  MAGNIFICENT  FARCE 

IN  the  good  old  days  at  the  theatre,  say  a  hundred 
years  or  so  ago,  it  was  not  unusual  for  the  main  fea- 
ture of  the  evening's  entertainment  to  be  preceded  by 
a  little  curtain-raiser;  in  like  manner,  the  farce  to 
which  I  am  going  to  ask  your  attention  is  to  be  pre- 
ceded by  a  necessarily  brief  resume  of  perhaps  the 
greatest  burlesque  ever  written. 

I  refer  to  the  trial  of  Mr.  Pickwick,  the  immortal 
creation  of  a  young  and  practically  unknown  man, 
who  for  a  time  masqueraded  under  the  pseudonym 
of  Boz.  (Pronounced  not  as  we  usually  pronounce 
it,  but  as  if  there  were  an  e  at  the  end  of  it ;  it  was  a 
corruption  of  Mose.) 

Mr.  Pickwick,  who  is  as  English  as  Falstaff,  and  I 
think  as  great  a  creation,  had  inquired  his  landlady's 
opinion  as  to  the  greater  expense  involved  in  keeping 
two  people  rather  than  one,  having  in  mind  engaging 
not  himself,  but  a  man,  Sam  Weller,  to  look  after  him, 
as  the  phrase  goes.  Forthwith,  the  landlady,  Mrs. 
Bardell,  assumes  that  Mr.  Pickwick  has  made  her  an 
offer  of  marriage,  flings  her  arms  about  his  neck,  and 
at  his  appeal  to  "consider  —  if  anyone  should  come," 
cries,  "Let  them  come." 


2  A  MAGNIFICENT  FARCE 

And  come  they  did  :  young  Master  Bardell  and  Mr. 
Tupman,  Mr.  Winkle,  and  Mr.  Snodgrass.  The  as- 
tonishment of  all  was  extreme.  His  friends  did  not 
at  the  time  know  him  for  the  amiable  gentleman  he 
subsequently  became,  and  regarded  his  astonishing 
behavior  with  some  suspicion. 

How  Mrs.  Bardell,  through  that  precious  pair  of 
legal  practitioners, —  Messrs.  Dodson  and  Fogg, — 
brought  action  against  Mr.  Pickwick  for  breach  of 
promise  of  marriage,  with  damages  laid  at  £1500 ;  how 
his  friends  were  made  to  testify  against  him ;  how 
Sam  Weller  was  promptly  ordered  to  "stand  down" 
when  he  began  to  tell  how  generous  it  was  in  those 
legal  gentlemen  to  take  the  case  "on  spec,"  and  to 
charge  nothing  at  all  for  costs  unless  they  got  them 
out  of  Mr.  Pickwick,  is  known  even  to  Macaulay's 
schoolboy,  if  there  ever  was  such  a  prodigy. 

Had  the  elder  Weller's  advice  been  taken,  an 
"alleybi"  would  have  been  provided  —  a  strong  "  al- 
ley bi"  has  indeed  solved  many  a  legal  problem ;  but 
Mr.  Pickwick  would  not  hear  of  such  a  thing,  and 
judgment  was  given  for  the  plaintiff  with  damages  at 
£750. 

How  Mr.  Pickwick,  declining  to  pay,  is  cast  into 
the  Fleet,  and  how  Mrs.  Bardell,  having  given  a  cog- 
novit, whatever  that  may  be,  for  the  costs,  also  finds 
her  way  into  the  famous  old  prison;  their  meeting, 
and  how,  by  the  payment  of  all  the  costs,  Mr.  Pick- 
wick finally  secures  the  release  of  the  lady  and  him- 
self and  their  escape  from  the  legal  toils  of  the  two 
scamps,  Dodson  and  Fogg  —  all  this  has  been  written 


A  MAGNIFICENT  FARCE  3 

for  all  the  world  to  read.  And  all  the  world  has  read 
it.  Mr.  Pickwick  is  immortal,  not  only  as  a  char- 
acter, but  also  in  the  sense  in  which  the  word  im- 
mortal is  used  by  Chesterton,  who  points  out  that 
Mr.  Pickwick  was  a  fairy ;  not  that  he  was  suited  to 
swing  on  a  trapeze  of  gossamer ;  but  that  if,  while  so 
swinging,  he  had  fallen  upon  his  head,  his  pains 
would  not  have  been  severe,  and  he  would  not  have 
died. 

I  take  it  that  the  so-called  trial  of  Mr.  Pickwick  is 
known  to  more  people  the  world  over  than  any  other 
scene  in  any  book  whatever  (the  Bible  excepted). 
Call  it  what  you  will, —  comedy,  high  or  low,  or  farce, 
or  burlesque, —  it  remains  the  most  famous  picture  of 
an  innocent  man  temporarily  deprived  of  his  liberty 
and  the  pursuit  of  happiness,  which  after  all  was  Mr. 
Pickwick's  serious  business.  There  is  one  other  trial 
which,  in  some  respects,  resembles  it,  and  that  is  the 
trial  of  Warren  Hastings.  Both  trials  were  farces ; 
one  was  mean  and  sordid,  the  other  was  magnificent. 
In  one,  a  conviction  was  secured ;  in  the  other,  an  ac- 
quittal. But  in  both  cases  the  result  was  the  same  — 
the  victims  paid  the  costs. 

My  home  happens  to  be  at  Daylesford,  on  the 
"Main  Line"  of  the  Pennsylvania  Railroad;  and 
while  the  "Main  Line"  means  little  to  those  who  are 
not  of  the  Quaker  City,  those  who  are  know  that  it  is 
—  Spruce  Street  —  emancipated  somewhat.  Many 
of  the  stations  have  pretty  names  —  Welsh  for  the 
most  part;  for  the  district  was  taken  up  by  Welsh 


4  A  MAGNIFICENT  FARCE 

settlers  a  century  or  two  ago  —  and  Daylesford  is 
not  the  least  pretty.  It  is  hardly  in  the  Welsh  tract, 
and  gets  its  name  rather  curiously  from  the  English 
home  of  Warren  Hastings ;  for  the  reason  that  he  was 
the  hero  of  an  old  man  who  once  lived  in  these  parts, 
and  who  was  given  the  privilege  of  naming  the  little 
shed  and  platform  which  have  served  for  a  station 
since  the  railroad  people  concluded  that  a  stop  at  this 
particular  point  might  be  advisable. 

One  distinction  Daylesford  has,  in  common  with  a 
number  of  other  hamlets  and  villages  hereabouts :  it 
is  only  a  few  miles  from  Valley  Forge,  where  the  sol- 
diers of  the  Revolutionary  army  under  Washington, 
when  its  fortunes  were  at  the  lowest,  spent  the  terrible 
winter  of  1777-78.  It  is  also  within  rifle-shot  of  the 
fine  old  colonial  mansion  where  Anthony  Wayne  was 
born, —  Mad  Anthony, —  subsequently  commander- 
in-chief  of  the  army,  as  a  bronze  tablet  let  into  its 
south  wall  very  properly  records.  Hence  we  all  are 
supposed  to  be  somewhat  conversant  with  colonial 
affairs. 

One  evening,  as  I  was  going  out  on  my  usual  train, 
a  large,  pompous  man,  whom  I  knew  slightly,  con- 
descendingly lowered  himself  into  the  seat  beside  me, 
remarking  as  he  did  so :  "I  see  you  frequently  on  this 
train.  Where  do  you  live?  You  go  farther  up  the 
line  than  I  do." 

I  told  hun  the  name  of  my  station,  which,  being  a 
very  insignificant  one,  he  had  never  heard  of;  and 
then,  probably  to  keep  me  from  reading  my  news- 
paper, he  observed:  "Daylesford.  It's  a  pretty 


A  MAGNIFICENT  FARCE  5 

name.     Gets  its  name  from  a  ford  in  a  dale,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"No,"  I  replied,  "there  is  no  ford  there."  Then 
I  told  him  of  Daylesford  in  England  having  been  the 
home  of  Warren  Hastings,  and  that  our  little  station 
had  been  named  in  his  honor,  and  how  I  had  often 
thought  it  a  rather  curious  matter  altogether ;  when, 
to  my  surprise,  my  friend  seemed  inclined  to  take 
exception  to  my  attitude,  and  remarked :  "  Not  at  all ; 
I  think  it  fine,  the  way  we  keep  alive  the  names  of 
those  old  Revolutionary  heroes.  We  don't  do  enough 
of  it.  There  ought  to  be  a  monument  to  him  at  Val- 
ley Forge." 

Fortunately  my  astonishment  was  covered  by  the 
conductor  throwing  open  the  car  door  and  announc- 
ing "Bryn  Mawr!"  Whereupon  my  companion 
bade  me  good-evening,  and  left  me  to  my  medita- 
tions. 

After  dinner,  lighting  a  cigar,  I  strolled  about  my 
library,  murmuring  to  myself,  "The  Hall  was  worthy 
of  the  trial ;  it  had  resounded  with  acclamations  at 
the  coronations  of  thirty  kings,"  —  or  some  such 
matter.  I  had  not  read  Macaulay's  essay  on  Warren 
Hastings,  which  is  one  of  his  best,  for  many  years; 
but  these  purple  patches  have  a  way  of  fixing  them- 
selves, somewhat  unsteadily  perhaps,  even  in  so  poor 
a  memory  as  mine.  The  subject  haunted  me,  but  I 
could  not  remember  whether  the  great  trial  had  re- 
sulted in  a  conviction  or  an  acquittal,  or  exactly  what 
it  was  about.  "High  crimes  and  misdemeanors"  — 
my  memory  seemed  to  say.  It  might  not  be  a  bad 


6  A  MAGNIFICENT  FARCE 

idea  to  revive  a  faded  recollection.  I  had  expected 
to  be  through  with  Warren  Hastings  before  I  had 
finished  my  cigar,  but  a  year  was  to  elapse  before  I 
was  tired  of  the  subject.  One  of  the  joys  of  being  a 
desultory  reader  is  that  one  may  read  as  one  chooses. 

An  immense  amount  has  been  written  on  Warren 
Hastings,  but,  as  is  usual,  when  Macaulay  has  written 
upon  a  subject,  what  he  has  said  is  remembered,  and 
all  else  is  forgotten.  At  this  late  day  a  phrase  much 
employed  by  one  of  Hastings's  biographers,  "Be  this 
as  it  may,"  suggests  that  one  can  take  one's  choice 
of  the  many  contradictory  statements  and  draw  one's 
own  conclusions.  Of  a  few  facts  we  may  be  quite 
certain. 

Warren  Hastings  was  born  in  Oxfordshire,  in  1732, 
of  a  very  old  family,  then  impoverished;  his  great- 
grandfather had  disposed  of  the  ancestral  estate, 
Daylesford,  and  at  the  time  of  his  birth  the  family 
was  living  in  great  poverty.  For  such  education  as 
he  received,  he  was  indebted  to  his  uncle.  At  an 
early  age  he  was  sent  as  a  "King's  scholar"  to  West- 
minster School,  where  he  did  well.  On  the  death  of 
his  uncle,  a  guardian  secured  for  him  a  situation  in 
the  India  Office,  and  shortly  afterwards,  at  the  age 
of  eighteen,  he  sailed  for  Calcutta.  There  he  pros- 
pered and  married.  His  wife  and  several  children 
dying,  Hastings  used  his  immense  energies  and  abil- 
ity in  the  service  of  his  country,  incidentally  increas- 
ing his  fortune.  After  fourteen  years'  residence,  he 
returned  to  England,  pensioned  his  uncle's  widow, 


A  MAGNIFICENT  FARCE  7 

and  otherwise  providing  for  his  family,  occupied  his 
leisure  with  Oriental  studies  and  society.  His  in- 
vestments proving  unfortunate,  and  his  knowledge 
of  Indian  affairs  being  constantly  sought,  he  was 
finally  prevailed  upon  to  go  out  to  India  a  second 
time ;  and  with  his  second  journey  to  India  his  life 
may  be  said  to  have  begun. 

He  was  low  in  funds  and  in  spirits  when  he  set  out ; 
and  on  the  voyage,  which  in  those  days  was  an  affair 
of  many  months,  he  fell  ill  and  was  nursed  back  to 
health  by  a  beautiful  and  accomplished  Baroness  von 
Imhoff ,  who  was  accompanying  her  husband  to  India, 
and  with  whom  he  fell  in  love.  Imhoff,  a  German 
portrait-painter,  proved  complaisant,  and  finally 
accepted  a  proposition  of  Hastings  to  the  effect  that, 
in  return  for  a  substantial  cash  payment,  he  should 
permit  the  baroness  to  secure  a  divorce  and  become 
Mrs.  Hastings.  The  legal  formalities  took  years  to 
arrange;  meanwhile,  nature  took  its  course  and  the 
baron  resided  —  where  the  baroness  was  not. 

One  may  again  refer  to  Macaulay's  schoolboy  as  to 
the  manner  in  which  Hastings,  as  Governor-General, 
wrote  his  name  upon  Britain's  empire  in  the  East. 
It  occupied  him  for  sixteen  years.  His  instructions 
were  vague ;  they  might  perhaps  be  summed  up  in  a 
sentence:  "Remember  that  Indian  affairs  are  pri- 
marily business  affairs,  and  that  dividends  are  ex- 
pected ;  and,  by  the  way,  if  you  can  extend  the  sweep 
of  the  Empire,  it  will  be  appreciated  and  perhaps  out- 
weigh the  loss  of  the  colonies  in  America,  which  have 
recently  been  giving  us  much  trouble." 


8  A  MAGNIFICENT  FARCE 

Hastings  was  far  from  home  and  self-reliant ;  to  ask 
a  question  of  the  ministers  of  the  Crown  in  London, 
and  get  a  reply,  was  a  matter  of  perhaps  two  years, 
by  which  time  the  crisis  that  had  compelled  the  ques- 
tion was  over.  Hastings,  on  the  ground,  did  what 
seemed  to  him  best  for  all  concerned.  Moreover,  he 
was  not  alone  in  the  government.  There  was  a 
council  of  five  over  which  he  presided,  which  claimed 
to  have  the  right  of  review  of  the  acts  of  the  Governor- 
General.  Sir  Philip  Francis,  now  generally  regarded 
as  the  author  of  the  Junius  Letters,  was  a  member  of 
the  Council,  and  from  the  moment  of  his  arrival  in 
India  became  an  enemy  of  Hastings.  Originally  the 
difficulty  seems  to  have  arisen  over  the  absence  of  the 
ceremony  with  which  Francis  expected  to  be  greeted. 
Misunderstandings  and  quarrels  between  them  were 
frequent ;  finally  the  short  and  ugly  word  was  used, 
and  a  duel  fought.  Francis  was  severely  wounded, 
and  although  a  reconciliation  was  attempted,  it  was 
not  successful. 

There  was  undoubtedly  plenty  of  room  for  honest 
differences  of  opinion  as  to  the  wisdom,  to  say  nothing 
of  the  legality,  of  many  of  Hastings's  acts.  He  may 
have  been  cruel,  as  was  subsequently  charged,  but  his 
position  was  difficult  in  the  extreme.  He  was  sailing 
an  uncharted  sea,  and  he  was  serving  his  King  and 
country  rather  than  himself.  Most  men  who  served 
hi  India  after  a  few  years  returned  home  rich.  The 
word  Nabob  was  coined  for  them;  they  were  a  na- 
tional scandal  at  a  time  when  public  morality  was 
low.  According  to  the  standards  of  his  time,  Has- 


A  MAGNIFICENT  FARCE  9 

tings  was  unexceptionable  in  his  conduct.  To  judge 
him  by  the  standards  of  another  time  is  absurd; 
rather  we  should  remember  the  reply  of  his  great  con- 
temporary Clive,  when  charged  with  having  made, 
by  devious  means,  a  great  fortune :  "When  I  think  of 
the  possibilities  of  the  case,  I  am  surprised  at  my  own 
moderation."  Only  the  Germans,  and  perhaps  the 
Irish,  can  doubt  that  England's  rule  in  India  has  been 
in  the  main  beneficent.  This  is  not  to  say  that  no 
deeds  were  done  which  Englishmen  should  look  back 
upon  with  shame.  Be  this  as  it  may. 

Under  a  burning  sun  —  as  Napoleon  said  of  the 
battlefield  —  men  soon  grow  old.  Hastings  finally 
longed  for  home.  He  thought  of  England,  and  of 
Daylesford,  the  estate  of  his  ancestors,  which  he 
would  reacquire  with  a  part  of  his  fortune.  As  Gov- 
ernor of  India  he  had  accustomed  himself  to  live  in 
regal  splendor;  he  would  continue  so  to  live  in  Eng- 
land. His  King,  George  III,  having  succeeded,  prac- 
tically unaided,  in  wrenching  from  his  crown  its  most 
valuable  jewel,  the  American  Colonies  (acting  upon 
the  advice  of  his  mother,  "  George,  be  King!"),  would 
welcome  with  outstretched  arms  the  man  who  had 
added  India  to  the  British  possessions.  He  would 
receive  a  pension  and  a  title;  he  would  become  Lord 
Daylesford.  He  had  nc  children,  but  he  would  hear 
his  wife,  whom  he  loved  devotedly,  somewhat  doting- 
ly  perhaps,  addressed  as  "My  Lady."  Such  was  his 
dream.  When  would  his  resignation  be  accepted? 
At  last  relief  came,  and  Hastings  sailed  for  England. 

The  voyage  home  was  unusually  short,     Hastings 


10  A  MAGNIFICENT  FARCE 

sailed  in  February  ;  about  the  middle  of  the  following 
June  he  landed  at  Plymouth,  and  proceeded  at  once 
to  London,  where  his  reception  was  all  that  he  could 
desire.  He  was  received  by  the  King,  and,  what  was 
quite  as  important,  good  Queen  Charlotte  received 
Mrs.  Hastings.  Averse  as  she  was  known  to  be  to 
divorced  persons,  she  appears  to  have  looked  upon 
the  Hastings's  matrimonial  escapade  in  India  as  due 
either  to  the  distance  from  civilization,  or  perchance 
to  the  climate  ;  or  perhaps  she  was  moved  by  the  gift 
of  a  magnificent  bedstead  made  entirely  of  carved 
ivory,  which  Mrs.  Hastings  presented  to  her.  Be 
this  as  it  may,  the  Hastings  reception  lacked  nothing 
in  warmth,  and  all  was  going  swimmingly,  when 
Edmund  Burke  rose  in  the  House  of  Commons  and 
advised  that  he  would  at  a  future  day  make  a  motion 
respecting  the  conduct  of  a  gentleman  just  returned 
from  India ;  and  he  was  as  good  as  his  word.  But  it 
required  over  two  years  properly  to  set  the  stage  for 
the  great  trial  that  was  impending. 

What  living  mortal  ever  heard 
Any  good  of  George  the  Third  ? 

What  malign  fairy  touched  at  birth  that  royal  prince, 
so  that  he  became  silly  at  his  best,  and  a£  his  worst 
insane?  But  whatever  may  be  the  English  feeling 
for  George  III,  it  is  not  for  us  to  complain  of  him. 
Glorying,  as  he  said  he  did,  in  being  born  a  Briton, 
he  was  in  fact,  as  in  family,  a  German,  and  of  a  bovine 
intelligence  especially  fitting  him  to  drive  oxen.  A 
sequence  of  events  gave,  or  appeared  to  give,  him 


A  MAGNIFICENT  FARCE  11 

a  proud  and  liberty -loving  people  to  drive,  just  at  a 
time  when  English-speaking  people  were  learning  to 
drive  themselves.  To  the  end  of  his  long  life,  his 
ill-success  with  them  never  ceased  to  amaze  him. 
During  the  war, —  now  happily  terminated  with  the 
elimination  of  all  German  princes,  we  may  hope  for- 
ever,—  I  heard  an  English  army  officer  bring  a  large 
dinner-party  to  its  feet  by  proposing  "The  health  of 
the  English-speaking  peoples,  once  separated  by  a 
mad  German  king,  now  reunited  by  a  mad  German 
emperor."  The  effect  was  electrical. 

But  in  1785  George  III,  while  by  no  means  as  sure 
of  himself  as  when  he  came  to  the  throne  twenty-five 
years  before,  still  felt  that,  if  he  chose  to  welcome 
warmly  a  man  who  appeared  to  have  been  more  suc- 
cessful than  himself  in  governing  dependencies,  he 
was  at  liberty  to  do  so.  But  many  and  great  changes 
had  taken  place  in  England  during  Hastings's  ab- 
sence —  changes  of  which  Hastings,  who  was  an 
administrator  rather  than  a  politician,  could  know 
nothing,  and  which  Majesty  deemed  unworthy  of 
notice.  The  mere  fact  that  Hastings  was  favorably 
received  by  the  King  raised  up  a  party  against  him. 
The  younger  Pitt,  who  was  in  power,  at  once  became 
suspicious.  Hastings  had  probably  forgotten  his  arch- 
enemy, Francis ;  but  Francis  had  come  to  have  great 
influence  over  Burke,  then  at  the  height  of  his  reputa- 
tion; and  we  are  justified  in  believing  that  Burke 
was  prompted,  not  alone  by  his  partisan  zeal,  but  by 
his  love  of  justice,  when  he  decided  that  Hastings's 
conduct  in  India  should  be  reviewed  in  London. 


12  A  MAGNIFICENT  FARCE 

The  Indian  question  was  then  a  difficult  question, 
as  the  Irish  question  now  is,  and  seemingly  as  im- 
possible of  solution.  To  say  "India"  was  to  start 
something.  Instantly  there  was  a  division  of  public 
opinion.  The  King,  the  Court,  and  Lord  Chancellor 
Thurlow  all  took  Hastings's  side.  Burke  ranged  on 
his,  Pitt,  Sheridan,  and  Fox ;  indeed,  almost  without 
exception  the  most  brilliant  and  forceful  men  in  the 
nation.  The  preparation  for  the  trial  was  the  work 
of  several  years  and  the  brief  (  ? ),  when  printed  with 
its  index,  filled  twenty -four  folio  volumes.  Hastings 
wished  to  be  defended  by  Erskine  ;  but  Erskine,  while 
not  afraid  of  Burke,  admitted  his  inability  to  oppose 
Fox  and  Sheridan,  and  Hastings  was  obliged  to  con- 
tent himself  with  a  small  group  of  relatively  obscure 
men,  led  by  one  Edward  Law,  afterwards  Lord  Chief 
Justice  Ellenborough,  upon  whom  the  burden  of  the 
defense  chiefly  rested.  Heroic  work  was  to  be  done. 
Hastings  was  appalled,  as  he  had  reason  to  be;  by 
the  scope  and  venom  of  the  proceedings  against  him. 
He  was  alone  and  fighting  a  nation,  not  for  his  life 
but  for  his  honor.  There  was  no  question  of  personal 
integrity.  Out  of  the  immense  revenues  which  had 
passed  through  his  hands,  he  appears  to  have  saved 
for  himself  only  £80,000  or  so.  If  he  could  be  con- 
victed of  wrongdoing,  who  had  profited  by  it  ?  Eng- 
land, the  very  England  that  seemed  bent  upon  his 
destruction. 

At  last  the  time  for  the  trial  grew  near.  The  great 
state  trials  of  England  have  from  time  immemorial 
been  held  in  Westminster  Hall.  No  place  of  less  dis- 


CARD  OF  ADMISSION,  SIGNED  AND  SEALED,  TO  THE  TRIAL 
OF  WARREN  HASTINGS 


A  MAGNIFICENT  FARCE  13 

tinction  was  suited  for  so  overwhelming  a  function. 
Society  with  a  capital  S  began  to  pay  attention. 
Heretofore  the  matter  had  been  generally  regarded 
as  a  squabble  between  factions ;  but  it  soon  came  to 
be  understood  that  a  magnificent  entertainment  was 
to  be  staged,  the  prosecuting  committee  being  com- 
posed of  nineteen  men,  who  very  properly  became 
known  as  "the  Managers."  (The  name  was  given 
them  at  the  time,  and  it  has  passed  into  history.) 
Excitement  could  not  have  been  more  intense  if  a  new 
vice  had  been  discovered  and  was  to  be  on  exhibition. 
Society,  which,  in  the  picturesque  phrase  of  Trevel- 
yan,  then  floated  from  one  amusement  to  another 
upon  a  sea  of  wine,  set  sail  for  Westminster.  For  the 
moment  the  clubs  and  gaming-tables  were  deserted. 

It  is  early  in  the  morning  of  the  13th  of  February, 
1788.  The  approaches  to  the  Hall  are  guarded  by 
grenadiers ;  the  streets  are  blocked  by  magnificent 
carriages  of  state ;  the  demand  for  tickets  is  enormous, 
and  fabulous  prices  are  paid  :  as  much  as  fifty  pounds, 
it  is  said,  is  offered  for  a  good  location ;  and  even  to 
this  day  cards  of  admission,  when  duly  signed  and 
sealed,  have  a  certain  monetary  value.  The  spec- 
tacle is  to  begin  at  eleven  o'clock.  Long  before  that 
hour,  the  Hall  is  packed :  four  hundred  Lords  and 
Commoners  are  in  attendance.  At  last,  the  great 
functionaries  of  the  trial  begin  to  file  into  the  grand 
old  Hall,  its  gray  walls  concealed  by  crimson  hang- 
ings. Two  by  two  the  representatives  of  the  legal 
machinery  of  the  nation  enter :  peers  temporal  and 


14  A  MAGNIFICENT  FARCE 

spiritual,  judges  and  masters  in  Chancery,  clerks  and 
gentlemen-in-waiting.  There  are  "Black  Rod"  and 
"Mace-Bearer,"  and  the  dukes  of  the  Royal  House, 
and,  finally,  that  notorious  scoundrel,  the  Prince  of 
Wales  himself,  alias  "The  first  Gentleman  in  Europe." 
The  King  is  not  present,  being  "indisposed"  —  this 
euphonious  word  concealing  perhaps  from  a  few  the 
fact  that  Majesty  is,  for  the  time  being,  insane.  The 
throne,  therefore,  is  empty,  but  each  person  passing 
it  makes  a  profound  obeisance  to  it,  and  there  is  much 
talk  as  to  who  bows  lowest  or  most  gracefully. 

About  noon,  all  being  in  readiness,  the  Sergeant- 
at-arms  cries :  "  Warren  Hastings,  come  forth  and 
save  thee  and  thy  bail."  At  once  there  appears  a 
small  and  emaciated  person,  who,  glancing  around 
with  evident  anxiety,  falls  on  his  knees  before  the  bar, 
but  is  at  once  told  by  the  Lord  Chancellor  to  rise. 
It  is  the  formal  procedure,  but  nothing  is  omitted 
that  might  tend  to  shake  the  confidence  of  the  ac- 
cused. 

Thereupon  the  reading  of  the  charges  begins,  and 
occupies  two  whole  days ;  "rendered  less  tedious  than 
it  would  otherwise  have  been  by  the  silver  voice 
and  just  emphasis  of  the  clerk  of  the  court,"  says 
Macaulay,  who  was  not  then  born  and  hence  was 
not  obliged  to  sit  through  the  proceedings ;  whereas 
Fanny  Burney  was,  and  gives  it  as  her  opinion  that 
the  reading  was  so  monotonous  that  it  was  impossible 
to  discover  whether  it  was  charge  or  answer. 

"They're  off !"  is  the  cry  for  which  we  impatiently 
wait  at  the  race-course,  and  thereafter  all  is  confu- 


A  MAGNIFICENT  FARCE  15 

sion.  So  it  is  at  this  trial.  The  throng,  which  has 
held  itself  tense  for  hours,  suddenly  becomes  relaxed. 
From  one  part  of  the  house  to  another,  from  one 
box  to  another,  stroll  the  wits  and  beaux  of  the  day, 
eyeing  and  ogling  ladies  who  have  come  to  be 
eyed  and  ogled. 

Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  who  has  lost  or  forgotten  his 
ear-trumpet,  does  not  allow  this  mishap  to  interfere 
with  his  usual  good-humor,  but  smiles  and  bows  to 
everyone,  the  centre  of  a  group  of  admiring  friends. 
Johnson's  friend  Wyndham  saunters  up  to  Miss 
Burney,  and  congratulates  her  upon  the  location  of 
her  seat.  "Is  it  not  a  magnificent  spectacle?  You 
see  it  here  to  great  advantage ;  you  lose  some  of  the 
Lords,  but  you  gain  all  the  ladies,  ha  !  ha  !" 

"Yes,  but  what  is  going  forward?  I  can't  dis- 
cover to  which  side  I  am  listening." 

"It's  not  important.  They  are  only  galloping 
through  the  charges." 

"  Galloping  through  the  charges  ?  That 's  a  form 
of  law,  I  suppose." 

"Oh !  look  at  the  Archbishop  of  York  affecting  to 
read  the  articles  of  impeachment !  Spare  your  eyes, 
my  good  Lord !  we  know  that  your  mind  is  already 
made  up.  Hastings  has  advanced  your  son's  interest 
in  the  East." 

It  was  like  a  night  at  the  opera,  when  the  ballet  is 
on,  and  Society  is  more  interested  in  itself  than  in 
what  takes  place  on  the  stage.  We  may  be  sure  that 
there  was  adjournment  at  the  proper  time  for  food, 
and  that  tea  was  taken,  and  that  the  evening  and  the 


16  A  MAGNIFICENT  FARCE 

morning  were  the  first  day,  and  the  second  was  like 
unto  it.  Finally,  however,  the  Chancellor  rose  and 
made  a  brief  speech,  and  gave  great  offense  to  "tlte 
managers"  by  the  use  of  the  word  "mere."  "Mere 
allegations,"  he  called  the  rhetoric  inscribed  upon  the 
immense  rolls  of  parchment,  the  reading  of  which 
had  consumed  two  entire  days  —  and  these  words 
were  to  prove  prophetic. 

On  the  third  day  the  trial  really  began.  Burke  as 
Manager-in-chief  rose  and,  making  a  profound  bow 
to  the  Court,  stood  forth  as  the  accuser  of  Warren 
Hastings,  and  in  his  opening  address  accused  him  of 
every  crime  in  the  calendar.  A  famous  judge,  in 
Polonius-manner,  not  long  since  summed  up  his  ad- 
vice to  a  young  advocate  in  these  words  :  "Above  all, 
avoid  eloquence  as  you  would  the  very  devil" ;  but 
in  those  days  eloquence,  or  what  passed  for  it,  was 
the  delight  of  Lords  and  Commons  alike,  and  Burke 
was  admittedly  the  greatest  speaker  of  his  time. 

The  man  who  did  not  know  how  to  indict  a  whole 
people  had  no  difficulty  whatever  in  indicting  one 
man  of  offenses  enough  to  damn  an  entire  nation. 
He  accused  Hastings  of  all  the  crimes  that  have  their 
rise  in  the  wicked  dispositions  of  men  —  avarice, 
rapacity,  pride,  cruelty,  malignity  of  temper,  haughti- 
ness, insolence ;'  in  short,  everything  that  manifests  a 
heart  blackened  and  gangrened  to  the  core.  With 
this  as  an  introduction,  he  proceeded  to  charge  him 
with  having  stolen  the  lands  of  widows  and  orphans, 
with  having  wasted  the  country  and  destroyed  the 
inhabitants,  after  cruelly  harassing  them.  He  ac- 


H     ^ 

II 


fc   "g 


A  MAGNIFICENT  FARCE  17 

cused  him  of  never  dining  without  creating  a  famine, 
of  feeding  on  the  indigent,  the  dying,  and  the  dead. 
His  cruelty,  he  said,  was  more  revolting  than  his 
corruption ;  and  finally  he  ridiculed  him  as  a  swindler 
who  had  obtained  honor  under  false  pretenses.  Low, 
mean,  and  contemptible  as  was  his  origin,  bred  in 
vulgar  and  ignoble  habits,  he  became  more  proud 
than  persons  born  to  the  imperial  purple.  Tyrant, 
thief,  robber,  cheat,  swindler,  sharper,  a  spider  in 
Hell  —  all  these  he  was,  and  more;  and  finally  the 
orator  expressed  his  regret  that  the  English  language 
did  not  afford  terms  adequate  to  the  enormity  of  his 
offenses. 

The  speech  lasted  four  days,  and  affected  different 
people  in  different  ways.  Those  who  were  against 
Hastings  thought  it  magnificent,  said  so,  and  hailed 
Burke  as  the  modern  Demosthenes.  "Females" 
fainted  at  hearing  of  so  hideous  a  monster,  and  had 
to  be  carried  from  the  scene.  Not  all  were  of  this 
opinion,  however :  honest  Jim  Burney,  Fanny's 
brother,  the  sea-captain,  protested  that  it  was  not 
eloquence  at  all,  that  it  was  mere  rant,  stuff,  and 
nonsense,  and  that  the  whole  thing  was  a  comedy  — 
nay,  rather,  a  farce;  and  Fanny,  who  agreed  with 
him,  told  him  to  hush  lest  he  should  be  overheard 
by  Burke's  son,  who  stood  near  them. 

If  the  Lord  Chancellor  had  called  the  formal 
charges  "mere  allegations,"  we  can  imagine  with 
what  scorn  he  listened  to  Burke's  vituperations.  It 
was  at  one  of  the  sittings  of  this  court,  when  Lord 
Thurlow  was  presiding,  that  Fox,  struck  by  the 


18  A  MAGNIFICENT  FARCE 

solemnity  of  the  Lord  Chancellor's  appearance,  made 
his  oft-quoted  remark  to  a  friend  :  "  I  wonder  whether 
anyone  ever  was  as  wise  as  Thurlow  looks  ?" 

If  the  law  were,  as  it  is  sometimes  said  to  be,  that 
which  is  vehemently  asserted  and  forcibly  maintained, 
or  if  eloquence  were  evidence,  the  trial  might  well 
have  been  brought  to  an  end  then  and  there ;  but  in 
point  of  fact  the  curtain  had  just  been  raised  on  a 
performance  that  was  destined  to  continue  for  years, 
until  the  audience  finally  grew  tired  and  went  home, 
leaving  the  actors  playing  to  empty  benches. 

But  it  must  be  confessed  that  there  never  had  been 
a  more  brilliant  first  act,  and  never  had  play  a 
greater  cast.  The  next  day,  when  Sheridan  took 
the  centre  of  the  stage,  it  must  have  been  quite 
obvious  to  him  that,  if  he  were  to  live  up  to  his 
reputation  as  the  greatest  wit  of  the  day,  he  would 
have  to  speak  briefly  and  to  the  point.  He  did  not 
dare  attempt  to  outdo  Burke  in  length,  but  he 
thought  that  perhaps  he  might  be  more  forceful ;  he 
compressed,  therefore,  his  speech  into  two  days,  and 
employed  what  was  described  at  the  time  as  some- 
thing between  poetry  and  prose  and  better  than 
either.  It  was  in  this  speech  that  Sheridan  made  his 
famous  remark  about  the  "luminous,"  which  he  sub- 
sequently corrected  to  "voluminous,"  page  of  Gib- 
bon. And  one  may  be  quite  sure  that  he,  the  great 
dramatist,  the  creator  of  the  screen  scene  in  the 
"School  for  Scandal,"  lost  no  opportunity  for  dra- 
matic effect.  In  closing,  he  gathered  himself  up  for 
a  mighty  effort,  and  pouring  out  his  wrath  and  scorn 


A  MAGNIFICENT  FARCE  19 

on  the  "hideous  and  ignominious"  figure  before  him, 
contrived  to  fall  exhausted,  almost  fainting,  into 
the  outstretched  arms  of  Burke.  Altogether,  it  was 
magnificent  team-work. 

Fox,  when  his  turn  came,  did  not  create,  or,  rather, 
maintain  a  good  impression.  He  seemed  at  ease  and 
in  good  humor  for  a  moment,  then  fell  into  a  pas- 
sionate fit  of  vehemence,  and  as  suddenly  resumed 
his  careless  and  disengaged  air.  On  the  whole,  he 
was  not  convincing.  Twenty  years  later  one  of  this 
trio,  Sheridan,  tried  to  apologize  to  Hastings  hi  an 
off-hand  way,  saying,  "  Of  course  you  know  we  public 
speakers  are  expected  to  employ  telling  effects ;  it 's 
our  business."  But  Hastings  would  not  admit  the 
necessity,  and  ignored  his  outstretched  hand.  Of  his 
feelings  during  all  these  torrents  of  oratory,  he  has 
left  a  record.  "I  was  bewildered  and  for  a  time 
fascinated,"  he  said,  "by  the  immense  vigor  and 
energy  with  which  I  was  attacked,  and  felt  for  half 
an  hour  the  most  culpable  man  on  earth ;  but  the 
feeling  passed,  and  I  knew  in  my  heart  that  I  was 
innocent  of  the  infamous  charges  brought  against 
me." 

It  could  not  be  expected  that  society  would  forever 
give  over  all  its  customary  amusements  to  attend  a 
trial,  however  famous.  For  a  time  it  was  the  talk 
of  the  town.  But  a  theatrical  tempest  soon  becomes 
wearisome ;  stage  thunder  and  stage  lightning  seldom 
kill.  Hastings  had  been  admitted  to  bail,  he  moved 
about  in  society  undisturbed,  he  bought  the  Dayles- 


20  A  MAGNIFICENT  FARCE 

ford  estate,  and  took  a  town  house  in  Park  Lane. 
At  intervals  the  trial  went  on ;  it  was  a  long,  tedious, 
and  costly  proceeding. 

We  know  upon  unimpeachable  authority  how  ob- 
serving a  young  woman  was  Fanny  Burney,  at  that 
time  second  Keeper  of  the  Robes  to  Queen  Charlotte, 
with  a  residence  at  Windsor.  At  first  Fanny  was 
delighted  at  the  privilege  of  attending  the  sittings  at 
Westminster  Hall,  and  she  stored  up  in  her  mind  all 
the  interesting  or  amusing  incidents,  for  recital  when 
she  got  home  ;  for  the  King,  as  he  told  her,  preferred 
her  narrative  to  any  other ;  but  gradually  her  interest, 
too,  waned.  The  submission  of  long  and  complicated 
evidence  is  never  an  interesting  proceeding  for  the 
on-looker,  and  week  after  week,  and  month  after 
month,  and  year  after  year,  it  continued.  She  would 
have  liked  to  be  excused  from  further  attendance, 
and  suggested  that  the  Hall  was  draughty  and  that 
she  might  catch  cold;  but  the  Queen  told  her  to 
"wrap  up  well."  It  amused  the  King  to  listen  to 
her  account  of  the  proceedings,  and  Majesty's 
wishes  must  be  gratified. 

What  had  at  first  been  looked  upon  as  the  most  im- 
portant event  of  a  reign  full  of  interesting,  dramatic, 
and  scandalous  incidents  became  at  last  an  awful 
bore ;  and  as  it  gave  no  promise  of  ever  coming  to  an 
end,  actors  and  audience  alike  became  desperate. 
Hastings  cried,  "For  God's  sake  end  the  matter  one 
way  or  another;  the  expense  is  ruinous."  "The 
Managers"  had  the  public  treasury  behind  them; 
but  as  Hastings  was  obliged  to  defray  his  expenses 


A  MAGNIFICENT  FARCE  21 

out  of  his  own  pocket,  bankruptcy  stared  him  in  the 
face.  Several  years  elapsed  before  his  side  had  an 
opportunity  to  present  its  argument;  and  when  fi- 
nally Edward  Law  came  to  be  heard,  he  gave  by  way 
of  introduction  the  entire  history  of  English  affairs 
in  India.  It  was  probably  the  first  and  only  clear 
and  consecutive  account  of  what  the  trial  really  was 
about.  The  "trash  and  rubbish,"  as  Thurlow  called 
the  arguments  presented  by  "the  Managers,"  was 
designed  to  bewilder  and  befog  rather  than  to  en- 
lighten the  group  of  gouty  old  gentlemen  assembled 
in  all  their  magnificence  to  hear  and  sift  the  evidence 
presented  to  them. 

Not  being  a  Philadelphia  lawyer,  I  have  been  un- 
able to  discover  upon  what  theory  the  trial  proceeded. 
Who  were  the  judges?  The  peers  of  the  realm,  it 
would  seem.  Were  they  required  to  hear,  or  did 
they  even  pretend  to  hear,  the  evidence  ?  Not  after 
a  little.  Were  they  constant  in  their  attendance? 
No.  It  so  happened  that,  as  the  trial  progressed, 
death  took  them,  at  first  one  by  one,  and  then  by 
little  groups,  and  their  places  were  taken  by  others ; 
so  that  many  who  heard  the  defense  of  Hastings  knew 
little  and  cared  less  about  the  attack  that  had  been 
made  upon  him  several  years  before.  Indeed,  it 
would  appear  that,  although  the  legal  machinery  of 
the  nation  had  been  set  in  motion,  it  was  not,  in  the 
usual  sense,  a  trial  at  law  at  all. 

The  lawyers  who  entered  into  the  proceeding  did 
so  because  they  saw  an  immense  opportunity  for 
fame  and  fortune.  That  was  not  a  bad  idea  of  Fred- 


22  A  MAGNIFICENT  FARCE 

erick,  yclept  the  Great,  that,  if  the  lawyers  about  him 
could  not  settle  a  difficulty  in  court  within  a  year 
from  the  time  they  began,  then  he  would  step  in  and 
settle  it  out  of  hand.  Curiously,  the  rewards  for 
non-success  at  the  bar  are  frequently  greater  than 
those  crowning  successful  effort.  What  other  pro- 
fession is  so  fortunate?  A  doctor  makes  a  mistake 
and  the  patient  dies  —  then  and  there  is  an  end ;  but 
when  the  lawyer  makes  a  mistake,  he  merely  makes  a 
motion  for  a  new  trial  or  takes  the  case  to  a  higher 
court,  and  asks  for  a  further  retainer.  I  have  a 
friend  who  takes  a  legal  decision  as  reverently  as 
Moses  took  the  Ten  Commandments  on  the  top  of 
Mount  Ararat  —  if  that  was  the  name  of  the  moun- 
tain from  which  "Thou  shalt  not"  was  sent  rever- 
berating through  the  ages.  I  once  heard  him  say, 
"The  joy  of  the  law  —  "  I  would  permit  him  to  go 
no  further.  "The  joy  of  the  law,"  I  interrupted,  "is 
in  writing  briefly,  'To  Services  Rendered,'  having 
in  mind  the  sum  your  client  is  likely  to  have  in  bank, 
and  doubling  it."  But  this  is  a  digression. 

No  student  of  eighteenth-century  affairs  will  neg- 
lect the  caricaturist ;  these  men  held  up  to  nature  a 
distorting  glass,  in  which  everything  is  out  of  focus, 
but  which  nevertheless  emphasizes  what  is  especially 
characteristic.  During  much  of  the  time  when 
Hastings  was  in  the  public  eye,  the  public  was  too 
much  interested  in  the  notorious  escapades  of  the 
Prince  of  Wales  with  the  beautiful  Mrs.  Fitzherbert 
to  care  very  much  what  became  of  the  former  Gov- 
ernor-General of  India.  Nevertheless,  caricatures 


A  MAGNIFICENT  FARCE 


anent  the  trial  were  numerous,  most  of  them  being 
favorable  to  the  prisoner.  One,  entitled  the  "Last 
Scene  of  the  Managers'  Farce,"  answers  the  very 
natural  question, 
What  has  become 
of  Philip  Francis  all 
this  time  ?  It  rep- 
resents Hastings 
rising  in  glory  from 
the  clouds  of  cal- 
umny, while  Burke 
and  Fox  are  in  de- 
spair at  the  failure 
of  their  efforts ;  and 
behind  is  the  crafty 
face  of  Francis,  that 
malevolent  deus  ex 
machina,  with  the 
legend, "  No  charac- 
ter in  the  farce,  but 
very  useful  behind 
the  scenes." 

What  purported 
to  be  a  series  of 
"Letters  from  Simpkin  the  Second  in  London  to  his 
Dear  Brother  in  Wales,"  an  amusing  skit  written  in 
doggerel,  was  much  in  vogue  during  the  early  years  of 
the  trial.  Even  Royalty  enjoyed  it.  The  salient  fea- 
tures of  the  amusing  spectacle  were  cleverly  brought 
out,  and  it  is  clear  that  from  the  beginning  Burke  had 
the  laboring  oar.  Difficulties  as  to  the  admissibility 


LETTERS 


SIMPKIN  THE    SECOND, 


DEAR  BROTHER  IN  WALES; 

CONTAIN1HO 

AN  HUMBLE  DESCRIPTION  OF  THE  TRJAL 

or 
WARREN  HASTINGS,  Es<^ 

IIISIOMS  IN  1789. 
WITH 

NOTES  AND  ALTERATIONS  BT  THE  AUTHOR. 

To  which  in  idled, 

SEVERAL  LETTERS  IN  ANSWER,  FROM 

SIMON,  AUNT  BRIDGET,   AND  SHENK1N. 

AND  AN  ORIGINAL  POETICAL  DEDICATION 

TO  THE  RIGHT  HON.  EDMUND  BURKE. 

BY  SIMPKIN. 


THE  SECOND  EDITION. 


LONDON: 
PRINTED    BT 

JOHN  BELL,  JSrittify  Iftranj.STRAND, 

Bovluellcr  to  Hit  Royal  Highness  the  Prince  of  Wain. 
M  DCCZCII. 


24 

of  evidence  consumed  days,  weeks  at  a  time,  as  well 
they  might,  when  acts  committed  in  India  many  years 
before,  and  documents  in  outlandish  tongues,  were  pre- 
sented for  the  consideration  of  peers  whose  one  idea 
was  to  escape  the  rattle  of  words  that  pervaded  West- 
minster Hall.  Burke 

affected  to  treat  as  a  joke 
The  doctrine  of  evidence  written  by  Coke : 
And  of  all  the  absurdities  he  ever  saw, 
The  greatest  absurdities  were  in  the  law. 

His  effort  to  create  the  belief  that  so  high  a  tribunal 
ought  not  to  be  bound  by  the  forms  and  rules  of  evi- 
dence which  obtain  in  ordinary  trials  gave  some  peer 
an  opportunity  to  make  an  obvious  pun,  that  the 
trial  must  be  conducted  according  to  "Law"  —  Law, 
it  may  be  remembered,  being  the  name  of  Hastings's 
chief  counselor. 

At  length,  the  trial  became,  not  only  a  bore,  but  a 
scandal :  somehow  or  other  it  had  to  be  brought  to  an 
end.  Other  political  issues  had  come  to  the  fore,  and 
that  which  once  seemed  so  important  had  entirely 
lost  its  interest.  In  France  there  was  a  revolution  — 
a  King  and  Queen  had  been  executed,  and  Burke's 
intense  passion  for  justice  took  another  tangent.  At 
home  there  had  been  too  much  of  what  we  should 
now  call  destructive  criticism.  It  was  time  to  tighten 
things  up  a  bit ;  perhaps  the  shadow  of  the  great  Bon- 
aparte was  beginning  to  rest  upon  England.  Be  this 
as  it  may,  it  was  time  for  the  curtain  to  fall ;  the  ques- 
tion was,  who  should  ring  it  down  ? 

It  would  seem  that  the  peers  finally  came  to  the 


A  MAGNIFICENT  FARCE  25 

rescue,  not  of  Hastings,  but  of  themselves.  They  at 
last  began  to  take  counsel  together  as  to  the  mode  of 
giving  judgment.  The  trial,  as  Lord  Thurlow,  no 
longer  Chancellor,  said,  had  no  parallel  in  history. 
It  had  extended  over  seven  years  and  three  months. 
Very  little  "evidence"  had  been  presented.  Has- 
tings had  been  treated  rather  like  a  horse-thief  than 
like  one  who  had  seen  princes  prostrate  at  his  feet 
and  nations  obeying  his  commands.  Reflections  of 
this  kind  were  inevitable,  as  it  was  seen  that  by  no 
possibility  could  a  verdict  against  him  be  secured. 

No  longer  did  Hastings  appear  a  monster  in  human 
form  ;  his  hour  of  triumph  was  at  hand.  Once  again 
he  was  formally  called  to  the  bar ;  he  knelt  down,  and 
was  bidden  to  rise  and  withdraw.  The  Lord  Chan- 
cellor then  put  the  question,  "Is  Warren  Hastings, 
Esquire,  guilty  or  not  guilty  ?"  The  charges  seem  to 
have  resolved  themselves  into  fifteen ;  on  two  of  them, 
bribery  and  corruption,  he  was  unanimously  ac- 
quitted. On  the  others,  most  of  the  lords,  standing 
uncovered  with  their  right  hands  upon  their  breasts, 
declared,  "Not  guilty  upon  my  honor."  There  were 
some  who  voted  guilty,  but  these  adverse  voters 
ranged  only  from  two  to  five  on  various  counts  — 
very  far  from  the  majority  required  to  convict. 
Lord  Mansfield  held  him  "not  guilty"  on  all  counts 
but  one,  and  that  concerned  a  question,  not  of  justice 
but  of  the  law,  a  seeming  admission  that  justice  and 
law  are  not  synonymous.  La  commedia  e  finita  1 

It  was  for  Hastings  a  complete  vindication.  The 
Managers  had  fallen  out  and  were  quarreling  among 


26  A  MAGNIFICENT  FARCE 

themselves ;  the  farce  was  over.  It  remained  only  to 
deliver  the  epilogue ;  it  was  brief  and  to  the  point, 
for  the  audience  was  impatient.  '  Warren  Hastings, 
to  the  bar  !  You  are  acquitted  of  all  things  contained 
in  the  articles  of  impeachment.  You  are  therefore 
discharged,  paying  your  own  fees."  Warren  Hastings 
bowed  and  retired,  an  innocent  man  and  a  bankrupt. 
The  great  trial  was  at  an  end. 

I  sometimes  think  that  the  trial  of  Herr  William 
Hohenzollern,  had  it  taken  place,  would  have  been 
as  great  a  farce.     He  has  already  been  tried  before 
the  bar  of  public  opinion  of  the  world,  and  convicted. 
Why  go  through  the  motions  of  a  trial  ?     What  pun- 
ishment could  be  adequate  to  his   crimes  —  other 
than  to  allow  him,  on  some  Devil's  Island,  to  medi- 
tate upon  them  forever,  if  that  were  possible  ? 

Since  my  interest  in  Warren  Hastings  has  taken 
possession  of  me,  much  Hastings  material  has  drifted 
from  across  the  seas  to  a  Daylesford  the  existence  of 
which  would  have  surprised  and  pleased  the  great 
man  :  portraits,  documents,  letters  formal  and  letters 
friendly,  cards  of  admission  to  the  great  spectacle ; 
and  some  day,  if  I  am  patient,  I  may  own  that  fine 
old  mezzotint,  "A  view  of  the  tryal  of  Warren  Has- 
tings, Esquire,  before  the  Court  of  Peers  in  West- 
minster Hall." l  Not  a  work  of  art  perhaps,  but  what 

I 1  wrote  to  Maggs  Brothers,  the  great  dealers  in  London,  and  asked 
if  they  had  or  could  procure  for  me,  a  copy  of  this  rare  print.   They 
replied  that  they  had  not  one,  but  that  if  I  only  wished  to  examine  it, 
they  felt  quite  certain  that  the  distinguished  collector,  Hampton  L. 
Carson,  Esq.,  of  Philadelphia,  would  be  glad  to  show  me  his;  that 
Mr.  Carson  had  "everything."   I  consulted  Mr.  Carson,  found  that 


A  MAGNIFICENT  FARCE  27 

a  human  document !  Marking  curiously  and  quaint- 
ly an  incident,  on  the  whole  creditable,  in  the  life  of 
a  great  nation.  For,  absurd  and  grotesque  as  in 
many  respects  the  trial  was,  the  ground  for  it  was, 
nevertheless,  the  maladministration  of  affairs  in  In- 
dia, and  it  might  properly  be  regarded  as  an  attack 
upon  a  corrupt  and  cruel  system  rather  than  upon  an 
individual.  And  good  came  of  it.  The  proper  gov- 
ernment of  dependencies  was  from  that  time  assumed 
as  a  national  duty. 

Before  Hastings  died,  Parliament  gave  him  in  some 
degree  the  honor  that  should  long  before  have  been 
his.  In  1813,  his  advice  on  Indian  affairs  was  sought ; 
and  upon  his  entrance  the  House  of  Commons  rose 
and  uncovered  —  a  most  unusual  proceeding.  He 
was  listened  to  closely,  and  treated  with  great 
respect.  At  the  close  of  his  examination  the  House 
again  rose  and  stood  silent  as  he  withdrew.  Sub- 
sequently he  was  received  and  treated  with  the  same 
great  courtesy  by  the  Lords.  He  had  become  a  great 
historic  figure. 

he  had  indeed  "everything,"  except  the  print  I  wanted.  Again  I 
wrote  to  Maggs,  leaving  a  standing  order.  Two  years  passed.  I  was 
hi  London.  One  evening  about  tea-time,  happening  to  be  strolling 
with  my  wife  hi  the  Charing  Cross  Road,  we  passed  an  old  print 
shop.  "Why  do  you  not  inquire  for  your  Hastings  Trial?"  said  she. 
We  entered,  and  disturbing  an  old  man  at  his  tea,  I  put  the  question. 
Wiping  his  mouth  on  his  sleeve,  he  paused  and  then  said,  "I  have 
it,  I'm  trying  to  localize  it.  If  you  will  stop  in  to-morrow  morning, 
I'll  have  it  for  you."  "Are  you  certain?"  I  asked,  quite  willing  to 
spend  the  night  there.  "Quite."  Needless  to  say,  I  was  on  hand 
early  next  morning,  and  when,  on  being  shown  the  print,  a  superb  copy, 
"proof  before  title,"  I  asked  the  price,  I  was  informed  that  he  would 
have  to  ask  me  £3  for  it,  at  $3.50  to  the  pound !  I  was  almost  ashamed 
to  take  it. 


28  A  MAGNIFICENT  FARCE 

Throughout  his  long  life  Hastings  carried  himself 
with  great  dignity  and  reserve.  The  first  shock  of 
the  impeachment  proceedings  over,  he  assumed  the 
role  of  the  philosopher,  one  which  he  was  well  fitted 
by  nature  to  play.  Immense  power  had  been  his ;  he 
had  governed,  and  on  the  whole  with  justice  and 
wisdom,  an  empire  the  extent  and  importance  of 
which  was  at  the  time  little  understood.  Expecting 
to  be  rewarded  as  others  had  been  who  had  served 
their  country  faithfully,  he  was  prosecuted  like  a 
criminal.  He  did  not  allow  it  greatly  to  disturb  him, 
but  went  quietly  about  his  affairs  as  if  nothing  was 
going  to  happen.  He  set  about  improving  his  Dayles- 
ford  estate,  at  the  same  time  residing  during  the 
season  at  his  establishment  in  Park  Lane,  the  lease- 
hold of  which  he  had  secured  in  Mrs.  Hastings  s  name. 
The  house,  then  known  as  No.  1,  was  at  the  northern 
end  of  the  street  overlooking  Hyde  Park  —  a  most 
desirable  location.  Subsequently,  it  became  the 
town  residence  of  Lord  Rosebery,  great-grandfather 
of  the  present  Earl.  In  connection  with  the  transfer 
of  the  property,  there  is  some  amusing  correspond- 
ence. Lord  Rosebery  was  not  wealthy,  but  was  in 
some  way  allowed  to  take  possession  of  the  house 
before  he  had  signed  an  agreement  or  paid  a  deposit. 
Hastings,  on  hearing  this,  wrote  to  his  banker : 
"Your  letter  has  done  what  impeachment  could  not 
do  —  it  has  broken  my  rest.  If  his  Lordship  has 
possession,  nothing  but  a  law-suit  in  Chancery  can 
force  him  to  pay,  should  he  go  back  on  his  bargain." 
Fortunately,  all  went  well,  and  the  house  a  hundred 


A  MAGNIFICENT  FARCE  29 

years  later  passed  by  purchase  into  the  hands  of 
George  Murray  Smith,  of  the  firm  of  Smith,  Elder  & 
Co.,  the  publishers. 

It  was  at  Daylesford  that  Hastings  spent  the  after- 
noon and  evening  of  his  long  and  eventful  life.  He 
wrote  poetry,  and  doubtless  would  have  written,  had 
he,  instead  of  Browning,  thought  of  it,— 

Grow  old  along  with  me ! 

The  best  is  yet  to  be.   The  last 

Of  life,  for  which  the  first  was  made. 

Hastings  said  that  the  purchase  of  Daylesford  en- 
tailed a  longer  negotiation  than  would  have  served 
for  the  acquisition  of  a  province.  It  became  a  pas- 
sion with  him  to  build  and  plant,  and  Daylesford 
House  was  erected  in  a  park  of  some  six  hundred 
acres.  It  was  a  large  and  comfortable  mansion,  fur- 
nished with  the  gifts  and  acquisitions  of  a  long  and 
distinguished  life. 

At  the  close  of  the  trial  Hastings,  as  has  been  said, 
was,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  a  ruined  man  finan- 
cially. The  government  did  nothing  for  him,  but 
the  East  India  Company,  which  he  had  served  so 
loyally,  came  to  his  aid,  and  advanced  him  large 
sums,  to  be  repaid  at  his  convenience,  without  in- 
terest ;  and  these  debts  were  subsequently  canceled. 
He  declined,  with  proper  acknowledgments,  the  offer 
of  a  pension  of  two  thousand  pounds  per  annum 
from  an  Indian  potentate ;  but  he  felt  that  he  need 
have  no  scruples  in  accepting  from  the  Company 
such  sums  as  he  required  to  enable  him  to  live  in 


SO  A  MAGNIFICENT  FARCE 

what  seemed  to  him  a  fitting  manner.  In  a  com- 
munication to  the  Directors,  he  confessed  that  he  had 
lived  beyond  his  means,  adding  that  strict  "cecon- 
omy"  could  not  be  expected  from  one  who  had  de- 
voted his  entire  life  to  public  affairs.  It  is  indeed 
curious  that,  at  a  time  when  pensions  were  freely  paid 
to  the  sisters  and  the  cousins  and  the  aunts  of  de- 
parted statesmen,  as  well  as  living  politicians,  noth- 
ing could  be  spared  from  the  public  or  privy  purse 
for  such  a  man  as  Hastings.  Whatever  was  needed, 
however,  he  had,  and  he  continued  to  live,  dispensing 
hospitality  accompanied  by  sleep-inducing  poetry, 
for  many  years  —  years  that  were  probably  the  hap- 
piest of  his  life. 

Every  man  is  to  a  greater  or  less  extent  a  dual  per- 
sonality. Hastings  was  a  dreamer  as  well  as  a  man 
of  action.  As  a  lad,  to  muse  was,  he  says,  his  favor- 
ite recreation.  "One  summer's  day,  when  I  was 
scarcely  seven  years  old,  I  well  remember  that  I  first 
formed  the  determination  to  buy  back  Daylesford. 
I  was  then  literally  dependent  upon  those  whose  con- 
dition scarcely  raised  them  above  the  pressure  of 
absolute  want ;  yet  somehow,  as  it  did  not  appear 
unreasonable  at  the  moment,  so  in  after  years  it 
never  faded  away.  God  knows  there  were  periods 
in  my  career  when  to  accomplish  that,  or  any  other 
object  of  honorable  ambition;  seemed  impossible, 
but  I  have  lived  to  accomplish  it.  And  though, 
perhaps,  few  public  men  have  had  more  right  than  I 
to  complain  of  the  world's  usage,  I  can  never  express 
sufficient  gratitude  to  the  kind  Providence  which 


WARREN  HASTINGS  OF  DAVLESFORD  HOUSE    ESQUIRE 


A  MAGNIFICENT  FARCE  31 

permits  me  to  pass  the  evening  of  a  long,  and  I  trust 
not  a  useless  life,  amid  scenes  that  are  endeared  to 
me  by  so  many  personal  as  well  as  traditional  associ- 
ations." 

At  what  time  he  dreamed  of  England's  greatness 
in  India,  he  does  not  tell  us ;  but  he  lived  to  see  that 
dream,  too,  come  true ;  and  forceful,  nay,  brutal,  as 
he  undoubtedly  was  in  India,  so  kindly  and  gentle 
was  he  to  his  wife,  by  whom  he  was  survived  for 
twenty  years  —  years  devoted  to  his  memory. 

With  Daylesford  in  Pennsylvania,  I  am  much  at 
home.  Life  in  our  little  hamlet  is  not  unduly  stim- 
ulating. Such  local  happenings  as  occasionally  find 
their  way  into  the  newspapers  are  generally  occa- 
sioned by  a  sharp  and  dangerous  turn  in  the  much- 
traveled  Lancaster  Pike,  an  old  post -road,  now  taking 
the  grander  name  of  the  Lincoln  Highway.  This 
road,  plunging  under  the  railway  bridge  just  at  the 
station,  appears  to  be  going  in  one  direction,  whereas 
it  is  actually  going  in  another.  Not  all  automobilists 
know  this,  and  two  or  more  of  them  trying  to  oc- 
cupy the  same  space  at  the  same  time  afford  all 
the  excitement  we  seem  to  require.  Twenty-five 
years'  residence  has  made  few  changes  other  than 
that,  speaking  to  our  trees  and  to  our  children,  we 
can  truthfully  say,  "How  you  have  grown!" 

Daylesford  in  Worcestershire  I  visited  when  I  was 
last  in  England,  and  I  had  the  pleasure  of  being 
shown  over  the  entire  estate  by  its  present  owner, 
Squire  Young,  a  kindly  gentleman  much  resembling 


32  A  MAGNIFICENT  FARCE 

Cardinal  Newman  in  appearance.  But  the  interest 
at  Daylesford  is  the  church  rather  than  the  house. 
I  was  traveling  with  that  exquisite  book  of  Le  GaJ- 
lienne's,  "Travels  in  England,"  by  way  of  a  guide; 
opening  it  I  read :  "Almost  as  soon  as  you  catch 
sight  of  it  [the  church]  from  the  road,  you  see,  too,  a 
great  urn  standing  over  a  tomb  beneath  the  east 
window.  Something  tells  you  that  that  is  the  tomb 
you  seek,  and,  when  you  reach  it,  you  find  engraven 
upon  it  the  words  '  Warren  Hastings,*  simply  as  they 
are  engraved  across  the  Indian  Empire,  though  per- 
haps hardly  so  everlastingly.  As  one  turned  and 
looked  round  at  the  peaceful  green  hills  on  every 
side,  it  seemed  strange  to  think  what  thundering 
avenues  of  fame  converged  at  this  point  of  quiet 
grass." 

The  original  church  dated  back  a  thousand  years 
or  so  —  one  "fabrick"  giving  away  to  another;  the 
one  now  standing  was  built  at  a  time  when  English 
architecture  —  and  our  own  —  was  at  its  very  worst : 
1860.  It  supersedes  a  small  and  simple  structure 
erected  by  the  great  old  man  in  an  effort,  it  may  be, 
to  make  his  peace  with  Heaven.  A  tablet  erected 
in  the  former  church,  now  removed  into  the  present 
structure,  testifies  in  a  long  inscription,  "To  the  emi- 
nently virtuous  and  lengthened  life  of  Warren  Has- 
tings, Esquire,  of  Daylesford  House  in  this  Parish, 
first  Governor  General  of  the  British  territories  in 
India,"  etc.,  ending  with  the  pious  hope,  in  which 
we  join,  that  the  soul  of  the  Lord's  departed  servant 
may  be  at  peace. 


II 

ON  COMMENCING  AUTHOR 

MY  life  has  always  been  a  singularly  duplex  affair  : 
one  half  of  it  —  no,  much  more,  nine  tenths  of  it  — 
has  been  hard  work,  the  rest  of  it  has  been  spent  in 
my  library ;  even  when  I  was  a  boy  and  had  only  a 
shelf  or  two  of  books,  I  always  called  it  my  library. 

As  a  result  of  much  reading, —  and  very  little 
thinking ;  for  like  Charles  Lamb,  books  do  my  think- 
ing for  me, —  I  became  moved  to  write  a  paper  on  the 
pleasure  of  buying  and  owning  books ;  and,  much  to 
my  delight,  not  only  was  it  accepted  by  a  well-known 
editor,  paid  for,  and  published,  but  people  read  it 
and  asked  for  more.  It  is  the  first  step  qui  coute,  as 
the  French  so  eloquently  say.  After  the  acceptance 
of  my  first  article  my  ascent  was  easy. 

I  have  said  that  I  have  always  been  misunderstood. 
For  example  :  I  never  had  any  education,  whereas  it 
is  commonly  supposed  that  I  have  sat,  or  at  least 
stood,  at  the  knee  of  some  great  scholar  like  Kit- 
tredge.  The  fact  is  that  kindly  disposed  relatives 
took  me  in  hand  at  an  early  age  and  sent  me  from 
one  dame  — I  had  almost  said  damn — school  to  an- 
other, according  to  the  views  of  the  one  who  had  me 
in  charge  for  the  time  being.  This  is  a  bad  plan. 

In  like  manner,  when  I  grew  up  I  got  a  job  in  a 
bookstore,  Porter  &  Coates's,  and  a  fine  bookstore 


84  ON  COMMENCING  AUTHOR 

it  was ;  but  I  never  sold  any  books.  I  suppose  it  was 
early  discovered  that,  though  I  might  take  a  cus- 
tomer's money,  I  would  never  part  with  the  books, 
never  deliver  the  goods,  as  it  were,  and  for  that  reason 
I  was  put  in  the  stationery  department.  I  made  my 
first  acquaintance  with  pens,  ink,  and  paper  by  selling 
them,  and  in  those  days  I  had  no  idea  what  delight- 
ful playthings  they  make.  Because  I  spent  a  few 
years  at  Porter  &  Coates's,  I  am  supposed  to  have 
gained  there  the  knowledge  of  books  that  I  am  cred- 
ited with. 

And  later  on  I  was  for  a  time  in  a  banking-house, 
and  a  most  respectable  banking  house  it  was,  too : 
Brown  Brothers  &  Co.  —  a  sort  of  younger  son  of 
Brown,  Shipley  &  Co.  of  London.  There  I  drew 
bills  of  exchange  in  sets  of  three :  first,  second,  and 
third  of  exchange,  I  remember  they  were  called.  I 
never  became  much  of  a  draftsman,  but  I  soon  be- 
came expert  enough  to  make  three  separate  blunders 
in  a  single  bill.  It  took  tune  for  these  blunders  to 
come  to  the  surface.  I  made  a  mistake  in  June  in 
Philadelphia,  and  it  came  to  light  in  Shanghai  in 
December.  I  used  to  dread  the  arrival  of  a  steamer. 
I  did  not  mind  "  steamer  day  "  —  that  meant  outgo- 
ing mail ;  what  I  hated  was  an  incoming  post.  I  can 
see  now  the  brief  notes  written  in  clerkly  longhand, — 
it  was  before  the  introduction  of  typewriters  in  re- 
spectable houses, —  "  calling  attention  for  the  sake 
of  regularity  to  the  error  in  draft"  —  number,  name, 
and  amount  given.  I  came  to  know  just  how  long 
after  the  arrival  of  the  mail  it  would  be  before  some- 


ON  COMMENCING  AUTHOR  35 

one  would  tell  me  that  Mr.  Delano  wanted  to  see  me 
in  the  back  office. 

This  was  the  unhappiest  time  of  my  life.  I  can 
imagine  nothing  more  miserable  than  to  spend  the 
best  part  of  one's  life  in  counting  money,  especially 
some  other  fellow's  money.  Dr.  Johnson,  once  re- 
proached for  his  clumsiness  in  counting  money,  re- 
marked, "But,  Sir,  consider  how  little  experience  I 
have  had."  I  had  had  as  little.  Then,  to  make  the 
game  more  difficult  and  to  add  to  my  misery,  I  was 
expected  to  count  it,  not  only  in  dollars  and  cents, 
but  in  pounds,  shillings,  pence,  francs,  marks,  and 
anything  else  that  the  devilish  ingenuity  of  man 
could  contrive.  Reflection  told  me  that  I  not  only 
was  in  the  wrong  pew,  but  in  the  wrong  church  as 
well ;  I  determined  to  throw  up  my  job  and  go  into 
business  for  myself :  to  do  in  a  wholesale  way  what  I 
had  done  at  retail.  After  some  years,  when  I  had 
accumulated  a  little  money,  a  man,  thinking  I  had 
much,  called  on  me  with  a  view  to  selling  me  an  in- 
terest in  an  electrical  business.  I  was  told  that  what 
was  needed  was  a  financial  manager ;  and  when  upon 
investigation  I  discovered  that  the  business  was  in 
the  hands  of  the  sheriff,  I  knew  that  I  had  not  been 
deceived. 

A  story  of  suffering  and  disaster  is  usually  more 
interesting  than  a  story  of  commonplace  success. 
How  in  time  I  became  the  president  of  an  electrical 
manufacturing  company,  without  knowing  a  volt 
from  an  ampere,  or  a  kilowatt  from  either,  might  be 
interesting  to  my  family,  had  they  not  heard  it  before, 


36  ON  COMMENCING  AUTHOR 

but  to  no  one  else.  It  is  enough  for  me  to  say  that 
by  the  happiest  kind  of  a  fluke  I  came  to  have  a  name 
not  quite  unknown  in  electrical  and  financial  circles, 
although  nothing  of  an  electrical  engineer  and  very 
little  of  a  financier. 

And  now  in  my  old  age, —  for  if  an  electrical  busi- 
ness will  not  prematurely  age  a  man,  nothing  will, — 
when  I  sometimes  so  far  forget  myself  as  to  talk  of 
eddy  currents  and  hysteresis,  I  see  that  I  deceive  no 
one ;  that  I  am  listened  to  as  an  old  man  is,  when  for 
the  hundredth  time  he  starts  to  tell  what  he  thinks  is 
a  funny  story ;  for  I  am  known  to  hate  every  living 
mechanical  thing  with  a  royal  hatred  —  automobiles 
especially,  with  their  thousand  parts,  each  capable  of 
being  misunderstood.  Even  a  screw-driver  fills  me 
with  suspicion,  and  a  monkey-wrench  with  horror. 

And  I  am  not  altogether  alone  in  this  :  others  so  sit- 
uated share  my  weakness.  I  was  dining  once  in  Lon- 
don, quite  informally,  with  a  great  electrical  engi- 
neer, a  very  trig  maid  in  attendance.  On  the  table 
near  my  host's  right  hand  was  a  small  block  of  white 
marble  and  a  tiny  silver  mallet.  When  he  wanted  the 
maid,  he  struck  the  marble  a  resounding  blow. 

I  was  somewhat  amused,  and  asked  him  if  he  had 
ever  heard  of  a  push-button  for  the  same  purpose. 

"My  boy,  I  have,"  was  his  reply,  "but  I  get 
enough  of  electrical  devices  in  the  city  ;  I  don't  want 
a  single  one  of  them  in  my  own  home.  I  've  not  come 
yet  to  using  gas  ;  I  prefer  candles  ;  they  are  not  so 
likely  to  get  out  of  order.  I  hate  this  pushing  a  dimple 
and  waiting  for  something  to  happen.  When  I  make 


ON  COMMENCING  AUTHOR  37 

a  noise  myself  I  begin  to  feel  a  sense  of  progress ; 
that's  what  we  stand  for  in  this  country,"  —  with  a 
knowing  wink, —  "progress." 

I  have  frequently  been  asked  how  I  came  to  write 
a  book.  It  is  one  of  the  few  questions  that  have  been 
asked  that  I  can  answer.  Away  back  in  1907  we  had 
a  panic ;  we  have  been  in  such  a  turmoil,  financial 
and  other,  since,  that  some  of  us  have  forgotten  the 
very  respectable  dimensions  of  the  money  panic  of 
the  autumn  of  1907.  Not  so  the  writer.  I  had  gone  to 
Europe,  in  no  way  pleased  with  the  financial  outlook, 
and  to  some  extent  prepared  for  a  breeze,  but  not  for 
a  typhoon.  Enough  :  Christmas  came  as  Christmas 
will,  and  when  it  came  time  to  say  a  word  of  greeting, 
it  seemed  absurd  to  send  a  man  (or  a  woman,  for 
women  sometimes  suffer  in  panics  just  as  much  as 
men  do)  a  dainty  little  card  with  a  picture  of  a  bunch 
of  mistletoe  or  a  reindeer  pulling  a  sleigh,  and  wishing 
him  or  her  a  "Merry  Christmas."  Admitting  that 
"merriment"  is  a  conventional  wish  anyway,  I  could 
not  bring  myself  to  do  it. 

While  I  was  turning  over  in  my  mind  whether  it 
would  not  be  possible  for  me  to  hit  upon  some  thought 
which  might  raise  a  smile  amid  the  general  gloom, 
and  for  a  moment  escape  the  waste-paper  basket,  I 
chanced  to  drop  in  on  Horace  Traubel,  who,  having 
little  to  lose,  was  as  happy  as  ever ;  and  in  looking 
over  his  Whitman  manuscripts  I  came  across  a  scrap 
of  paper  on  which  was  written  a  sentiment  that 
seemed  particularly  appropriate  to  the  moment.  So 
I  had  a  facsimile  of  it  made  and  printed  on  one  side 

4  5  3 1 5 


38  ON  COMMENCING  AUTHOR 

of  a  card,  with  my  own  comment  on  the  other.  This 
provided  me  with  a  "greeting"  that  caught  the  fancy 
of  some  of  my  friends.  Several "  Captains  "  of  politics, 
industry,  and  finance,  to  whom  it  was  shown,  wrote 
me  and  asked  if  I  could  "spare  a  copy"  ;  and  almost 
immediately  my  supply  was  exhausted  and  the  mat- 
ter passed  out  of  my  mind  until  the  next  year,  when 
I  again  indulged  myself  in  a  greeting  a  little  more 
personal  than  could  be  bought  in  a  shop.  I  have  con- 
tinued this  practice  since :  thus  my  descent  into  lit- 
erature was  gradual  and  easy. 

Quite  recently,  in  the  drawer  of  an  unused  desk,  I 
found  a  sole  remaining  copy  of  my  Christmas  card 
of  1907,  which  I  now  reproduce. 

To  the  courtesy  of  Mr.  Horace  Traubel  I  am  indebted 
for  the  opportunity  of  reproducing  an  interesting  scrap  of 
Whitman's  handwriting.  In  Traubel's  recently  published 
book,  "With  Walt  Whitman  in  Camden,"— one  of  the 
most  remarkable  biographical  works  since  Boswell's 
"Johnson," —  we  read  that  he  (Traubel)  one  day  picked 
up  from  the  floor  of  Whitman's  little  study  a  stained  piece 
of  paper  and,  reading  it,  looked  at  Whitman  rather  quiz- 
zically. "What  is  it?"  he  asked.  I  handed  it  to  him. 
He  pushed  his  glasses  down  over  his  eyes  and  read  it. 
"That's  old  and  kind  o'  violent  —  don't  you  think  —  for 
me?  Yet  I  don't  know  but  it  still  holds  good." 

If  this  was  true  twenty  years  ago,  how  much  truer  is  it 
to-day?  And  if  it  be  said  that  Whitman  was  extreme  in 
his  views  and  unguarded  in  his  writings,  what  may  be  said 
of  the  following  absurdity  redeemed  by  wit :  — 

"He  touched  the  dead  corpse  of  public  credit,"  said 
Daniel  Webster  of  Alexander  Hamilton,  "and  it  sprung 
upon  its  feet." 


IrU.M 


Stf 


fH     02 

SB 

>  K 
?  O 


ON  COMMENCING  AUTHOR  39 

Is  it  to  be  said  of  another  New  York  Federalist,  infinitely 
more  popular  and  far  more  of  a  Federalist  than  Hamilton, 
that  he  touched  the  healthy  body  of  private  credit  and  it 
became  a  corpse  ?  Shall  it  be  added  that  an  adoring  nation 
cheered  the  miracle  and  murmured  with  reverent  lips : 
"Hail,  Caesar  !  We  who  are  about  to  bust  salute  you"  ? 

Or  of  the  following  absurdity  unredeemed :  — 

"All  that  our  people  have  to  do  now  is  to  go  ahead 
with  their  normal  business  in  a  normal  fashion  and  the 
whole  difficulty  disappears ;  and  this  end  will  be  achieved 
at  once  if  each  man  will  act  as  he  normally  does  act.  .  .  . 

"The  Government  will  see  that  the  people  do  not  suf- 
ier  if  only  the  people  themselves  will  act  in  a  normal  way." 

No  mollycoddle's  work  is  this;  this  broad  guaranty 
drips  clumsily  from  the  pen  of  a  strenuous  man  in  a  panic 
at  the  panic  he  has  made. 

Under  "normal"  conditions  it  would  now  be  in  order 
to  shout  Merry  Christmas  and  A  Happy  New  Year ;  but 
to  shout  anything  at  the  moment  might  be  out  of  place  — 
thanks  to  our  so-called  "Captains"  of  Politics,  Industry, 
and  Finance,  a  Merry  Christmas  is  out  of  the  question, 
and  a  Happy  New  Year  unlikely. 

Cheer  up.  Let's  have  a  drink :  "Here's  to  a  full  baby- 
carriage  and  an  empty  dinner-pail !" 

A.  E.  N. 

Times  change  quickly,  and  once  again  we  face  an 
era  of  the  empty  dinner-pail.  Whose  fault  is  it  ?  How 
shall  it  be  remedied  ?  These  are  not  questions  for 
the  mere  book-collector,  for  the  nonce  (how  long  is  a 
nonce  ?)  wielding  a  pen. 

Do  not  be  alarmed,  gentle  reader ;  this  introduc- 
tion is  almost  over.  It  is  like  a  door  stuck  tight  which, 
when,  by  a  great  effort,  you  have  forced  it  open,  you 
find  leads  nowhere. 


40  ON  COMMENCING  AUTHOR 

I  set  out  some  time  ago  to  tell  how  I  came  to  be  an 
author,  and  then  I  lost  my  place ;  better  authors  than 
I  ever  hope  to  be  have  done  the  same. 

I  shall  start  over  again.  There  is  a  rhyme  to  this 
effect :  — 

A  little  home  well  filled, 
A  little  wife  well  willed, 
Are  great  riches. 

Having  these,  I  wanted  one  thing  more.  I  wanted 
to  add  a  leaf  —  I  did  not  ask  to  add  a  tree,  not  even  a 
sapling,  only  a  single  leaf  —  to  that  forest  which  we 
call  English  literature,  that  stately  forest  in  which 
for  many  years  I  have  delighted  to  lose  myself.  It  is 
an  honorable  ambition  and  I  gave  it  full  play ;  and 
I  was  as  pleased  as  Punch  when,  after  a  time,  it  was 
suggested  that  if,  in  addition  to  a  number  of  essays 
that  had  already  appeared  in  the  "Atlantic,"  I  had 
some  other  literary  material,  as  it  is  called,  it  would 
be  read  with  the  idea  of  publication  in  book  form. 

In  due  time  a  book  appeared  —  a  book,  mind  you. 
Boswell,  in  conversation  one  day  with  Johnson,  re- 
marked that  he  had  read  a  certain  statement.  "  Why, 
Sir,  no  doubt,"  replied  the  sage,  "but  not  in  a  bound 
book."  There  is  a  great  difference  between  an  essay 
in  a  magazine  and  the  same  essay  in  a  bound  book. 
My  book  was  bound.  As  one  of  my  critics  very 
kindly  said  of  the  publication,  it  might  not  be  worthy 
of  the  immortality  of  morocco,  but  it  certainly  was 
a  very  pretty  success  "in  boards." 

But,  after  all,  reading  is  the  test.  Anyone  can 
write  and  print  and  bind  a  certain  number  of  pages ; 


ON  COMMENCING  AUTHOR  41 

the  thing  is  to  get  people  to  read  them.  A  great  man 
can  wait  for  posterity,  but  for  a  little  man  it  is  now 
or  never.  A  book's  life  is  almost  as  brief  as  a  butter- 
fly's. There  is  something  pathetic  about  the  brevity 
of  the  life  of  a  book.  A  man  works  over  it,  thinks 
about  it,  talks  about  it,  if  he  can  get  anyone  to  listen 
to  him;  at  last  he  finds  a  publisher,  and  the  book  ap- 
pears. For  a  few  days,  perhaps,  it  may  be  seen  in  the 
bookshops,  and  then,  like  the  snowflake  in  the  river, 
it  disappears,  and  forever.  Speaking  by  and  large, 
the  greatest  successes  escape  this  fate  only  for  a  mo- 
ment. There  are  so  many  books  !  Go  into  any  public ,. 
library  and  ask  what  proportion  of  the  books  on  the 
shelves  are  called  for,  say,  once  in  ten  years.  The 
answer  should  make  for  modesty  in  authors.  That  it 
does  not  do  so  proves  only  with  what  eagerness  we 
pursue  the  phantoms  of  hope. 

But  I  must  avoid  a  minor  note  in  my  carol.  D 'Is- 
raeli has  written  of  the  Calamities  and  Quarrels  of 
authors  —  I  write  only  of  the  amenities  of  author- 
ship. When  writing  ceases  to  be  a  delight,  I  will  give 
it  over.  Meanwhile,  the  trifling  honor  that  has  come 
to  me  is  very  gratifying.  My  book  was  published  in 
November,  1918.  Within  a  short  time  commenda- 
tory letters  began  to  arrive.  They  came  from  every 
part  of  the  country,  at  first  single  spies,  and  then  bat- 
talions. Almost  all  of  them  from  entire  strangers. 
Not  many  of  my  friends  wrote  me.  When  a  man  is 
publishing  his  first  book,  his  friends,  feeling  that  a 
great  joke  is  being  perpetrated,  want  to  have  a  hand 
in  it  and  do  not  hesitate  to  remind  him  that  they  are 


42  ON  COMMENCING  AUTHOR 

looking  forward  to  receiving  a  presentation  volume, 
the  inference  being  that  they,  at  least,  may  be  de- 
pended upon  to  read  it.  But  I  remembered  Dr.  John- 
son's remark  :  "Sir,  if  you  want  people  to  read  your 
book,  do  not  give  it  to  them.  People  value  a  book 
most  when  they  buy  it." 

When  the  book  finally  appeared,  and  people  began 
to  read  and  talk  of  it,  many  things,  grave  as  well  as 
gay,  resulted,  the  gayest  being  a  dinner  given  to  me 
at  one  of  the  clubs,  at  which  I  was  presented  with  a 
copy  of  my  own  book  superbly  bound  by  Zucker  in 
full  crushed  levant  morocco.  A  special  page  was  in- 
serted in  it,  whereon  was  printed,  among  other  gibes 
and  floutings,  a  paragraph  from  the  book  itself  :  "  I 
trust  my  friends  will  not  think  me  churlish  when  I 
say  that  it  is  not  my  intention  to  turn  a  single  copy  of 
this,  my  book,  into  a  presentation  volume."  This 
was  followed  by  a  "stinging  rebuke  from  the  uncom- 
mercial committee  which  is  paying  for  the  dinner  and 
which  regards  presentation  copies  as  the  cardinal 
virtue  of  good  book-collecting." 

It  was  a  merry  dinner,  and  well  on  toward  morn- 
ing, after  the  wine  had  been  flowing  freely  for  several 
hours,  my  friend  Kit  Morley  wrote  on  the  back  of  a 
menu  card  the  following  parody  of  Leigh  Hunt's  well- 
known  poem,  "  Abou  Ben  Adhem"  :  — 

ABOU  A.  EDWARD 

A.  Edward  Newton  —  may  his  tribe  e'er  wax  — 
Awoke  one  night  from  dreaming  of  Rosenbach's, 
And  saw  among  the  bookshelves  in  his  room, 
Making  it  like  a  "Shelley  first"  in  bloom,11 


(nru^    A- 


d  . 


PARODY  OF  A  FAMOUS  POEM,  BY  CHRISTOPHER  MORLEY 


ON  COMMENCING  AUTHOR  43 

A  Boswell  writing  in  a  book  of  gold. 

Amenities  had  made  Ben  Edward  bold, 

And  to  the  vision  in  the  room  he  said, 

"What  writest  thou?"  The  Boswell  raised  its  head, 

And  with  a  voice  almost  as  stern  as  Hector's, 

Replied,  "An  index  of  the  great  collectors." 

"Sir,  am  I  one?"  quoth  Edward.   "Nay,  not  so," 

Replied  the  Boswell.  Edward  spake  more  low, 

But  cheerly  still :  "  Sir,  let  us  have  no  nonsense ! 

Write  me  at  least  as  a  lover  of  Dr.  Johnson's." 

The  Boswell  wrote  and  vanished.  The  next  night 

He  came  again  with  an  increase  of  light, 

And  showed  the  names  whom  love  of  books  had  blessed  — 

And  lo,  A.  Edward's  name  led  all  the  rest ! 

In  the  cold  gray  light  of  the  morning  after,  it  was 
seen  that  this  poem  lacks  some  of  those  transcendent 
qualities  which  have  given  Shelley's  "Cloud"  and 
Keats's  "On  First  Looking  into  Chapman's  Homer" 
such  enduring  fame;  but  at  the  time  it  was  composed 
and  read,  it  produced  a  prodigious  effect  upon  the 
company,  and  some  day  my  heirs,  executors,  admin- 
istrators, and  assigns  may  sell  the  manuscript  at  auc- 
tion for  a  price  which  will  amaze  them.  —  But  this 
verges  upon  prophecy. 

I  had  another  pleasant  experience  not  long  after 
the  publication  of  the  "Amenities,"  to  which  I  refer 
chiefly  that  I  may  link  my  name,  if  only  for  a  mo- 
ment, with  that  of  a  dear  friend  and  fine  scholar,  now 
dead,  Francis  B.  Gummere. 

I  was  in  Boston,  and  had  been  invited  to  a  meal, 
too  elaborate  to  be  called  a  luncheon  and  hardly  for- 
mal enough  for  a  dinner,  at  the  Club  of  Odd  Volumes, 
as  the  guest  of  George  Parker  Winship,  the  librarian 


44  ON  COMMENCING  AUTHOR 

of  the  Widener  Memorial  Library.  It  was  a  delight- 
ful affair,  and  I  was  seated  next  to  a  good  Johnsonian, 
Mr.  Harold  Murdock,  who  was  good-naturedly  chaff- 
ing me  over  some  item  which  I  had  wanted  and  he 
had  acquired  at  a  recent  sale,  when  a  distinguished- 
looking  man  entered  the  room  and  took  his  place  at 
the  other  end  of  the  table.  Hearing  that  there  was 
merriment  at  our  end,  he  joined  in  the  good-natured 
raillery,  and  I,  having  no  idea  who  he  was,  seized 
upon  what  appeared  to  be  a  good  opening  to  say : 
"You're  having  a  good  deal  of  fun  at  my  expense; 
you  have  the  advantage  of  me  —  you  know  who  I 
am :  I  am  a  distinguished  guest ;  whereas  I  do  not 
know  you  at  all ;  you  may  be  a  man  of  no  import — " 

The  rest  of  my  sentence  was  lost  in  a  burst  of 
laughter,  at  the  end  of  which  he  told  me  he  was 
George  L.  Kittredge,  and  I  discovered  that  I  was 
bandying  words  with  a  landmark  of  learning  at 
Harvard,  and  by  common  consent  the  most  distin- 
guished professor  of  English  in  the  country.  I  had 
to  carry  matters  with  a  high  hand,  or  I  should  have 
been  done  for.  So  I  told  him  not  to  apologize  and 
that  I  seemed  to  remember  having  heard  my  friend 
Gummere  speak  highly  of  him.  "Ah,"  replied  Kit- 
tredge, "do  you  know  Gummere  ?"  And  when  I  told 
him  that  I  did,  he,  like  the  polished  gentleman  that 
he  is,  rose  and,  rilling  his  wine-glass,  bowed  and  said, 
"Sir,  I  am  drinking  wine  with  you  and  to  him." 

Well,  we  spent  a  delightful  afternoon  together, — 
at  least  it  was  delightful  to  me, —  in  the  course  of 
which  Kittredge  said:  "Did  you  ever  meet  a  man 


THE  LATE  FRANCIS  B.  GUMMERE, 
PROFESSOR  OF  ENGLISH  AT  HAVERFORD  COLLEGE 


ON  COMMENCING  AUTHOR  45 

more  universal  in  his  knowledge  than  Frank  ?  What 
a  delightful  companion  he  is !  Have  you  ever  heard 
of  a  book  that  he  has  not  read  ?" 

And  then  I  told  him  of  a  little  club  of  which  I  had 
been  a  member  for  thirty  years  or  more,  a  club  with- 
out a  name  or  rules  or  anything,  which  it  was  diffi- 
cult to  get  into,  and  once  in,  impossible  to  get  out  of, 
of  which  my  friends  Henry  Hanby  Hay1  and  H.  H. 
Bonnell  and  Felix  Schelling  were  the  founders,  and 
which  Gummere  finally  joined  as  our  baby  member. 
It 's  a  thing  of  the  past  now,  our  club ;  but  what  a 
club  it  was  !  We  devoted  ourselves  to  the  study  of 
the  more  obscure  English  authors.  There  was  plenty 
of  give  and  take  at  our  meetings,  and  it  was  an  estab- 
lished custom  among  us,  when  we  saw  a  head,  to  hit 
it.  At  our  meetings  how  Gummere  shone  !  And  when 
he  forgot  himself,  as  he  occasionally  did,  and  over- 
whelmed us  with  his  learning,  it  was  our  habit  to 
bring  him  down  to  earth  by  saying,  "Steady  there, 
Gummere,  remember  you  are  not  Kittredge !" 

When  our  sitting  broke  up,  as  sittings  must,  at 
parting  Kittredge  said  to  me,  "When  you  see  Frank, 
give  him  my  love.  He 's  one  of  my  oldest  and  warm- 
est friends." 

On  my  way  home  a  day  or  two  later,  I  chanced  to 
pick  up  a  paper  and  read  that  Gummere,  the  cultured, 
amiable  scholar,  had  suddenly  passed  away.  I  never 
had  an  opportunity  of  delivering  Kittredge's  mes- 

1 1  wish  here  and  now  formally  to  acknowledge  the  debt  I  owe  to  the 
Club  (especially  to  dear  old  Hay) ;  and,  paraphrasing  Dick  Steele,  I 
might  say  that  to  have  been  a  member  of  it  for  thirty  years  is  a  liberal 
education. 


46  ON  COMMENCING  AUTHOR 

sage,  and  our  little  club  has  never  had  a  meeting 
since  his  death.  I  fancy  it  had  outlived  its  usefulness  ; 
most  of  us  joined  it  when  we  were  in  our  early  twen- 
ties, and  we  had,  to  quote  Goldsmith's  remark,  which 
so  aroused  Dr.  Johnson's  ire,  "  travelled  pretty  well 
over  one  another's  minds. "  Some  of  us  were  getting 
too  old  to  be  regular  in  our  attendance,  and  old  Father 
Time,  too,  had  been  busy  with  his  scythe,  and  there 
was  a  feeling  that  the  places  of  those  who  had  gone 
could  never  be  filled. 

Written,  as  my  book  professedly  was,  for  the  tired 
business  man,  it  had  an  equal  success  with  the  sex 
which  we  have  been  taught  to  think  of  as  fair.  I  came 
to  have  in  some  small  measure  the  astonished  feeling 
that  Byron  had,  when  he  awoke  and  found  himself 
famous,  except  that  I  feared  to  wake  and  discover 
that  my  success  was  a  dream.  I  dreaded  the  arrival 
of  the  time  when  flattering  letters  would  be  a  thing  of 
the  past,  and  when  friends  would  no  longer  stop  me 
in  the  street  to  tell  me  that  they  never  would  have 
supposed  that  I  could  write  a  book. 

My  reputation  as  a  Johnsonian  grew  out  of  all 
proportion  to  my  knowledge;  and  if  I  recast  a  bit  of 
dialogue  with  a  casual  acquaintance  on  a  street  cor- 
ner it  must  stand,  not  for  the  single  encounter,  but 
for  a  hundred. 

FRIEND.  —  I  never  hear  Dr.  Johnson's  name  men- 
tioned without  thinking  of  you. 

N.  —  That's  very  good  of  you  (with  a  leer). 

FRIEND.—  There  were  two  Johnsons  were  n't  there  ? 
Did  n't  one  write  plays  ? 


ON  COMMENCING  AUTHOR  47 

N.  —  Yes,  but  they  spelled  their  names  differently, 
and  Ben  Jonson  died  — 

FRIEND.  —  I  remember  I  sat  in  his  seat  in  a  tavern 
the  last  time  I  was  in  London  in  1907, —  no,  1909,  I 
can't  remember  now  whether  it  was  1907  or  1909, — 
but  I  sat  in  Dr.  Johnson's  seat  in  a  tavern  ;  let  me  see, 
I  have  forgotten  the  name,  but  it  was  in  the  Strand. 

N.  (wearily).  —  No,  it  was  not  in  the  Strand,  it 
was  in  Fleet  Street,  and  the  name  of  the  tavern  was 
the  Cheshire  Cheese  — 

FRIEND  (exultingly,  as  one  who  has  found  great 
treasure) .  —  That 's  it  —  the  Cheshire  Cheese  !  I 
had  lunch  there  and  I  sat  in  Dr.  Johnson's  seat.  Have 
you  ever  been  there . 

N.  —  Yes,  and  it  may  surprise  you  to  know  that 
there  is  not  one  single  contemporary  reference  to 
Johnson's  ever  having  visited  the  Cheshire  Cheese. 

FRIEND.  —  Why,  that's  queer.    I  was  told  — 

N.  (firmly) .  —  Yes,  I  know  very  well  what  you 
were  told,  but  it's  all  fiction.  The  legend  that  he 
frequently  visited  the  Cheshire  Cheese  has  grown  up 
in  the  last  century,  and  is  founded  on  nothing  more 
than  possibility,  or,  at  most,  probability. 

FRIEND.  —  You  surprise  me.  Well,  it's  a  dirty  old 
place,  anyhow.  I  always  preferred  going  to  Simp- 
son's. 

N.  —  Now  you're  talking!  Don't  you  wish  you 
were  there  now  ?  Well,  I  must  be  on  my  way. 

For  the  reason,  I  suppose,  that  it  was  soon  recog- 
nized that  my  book  was  written  in  the  leisure  hours 


48  ON  COMMENCING  AUTHOR 

of  a  busy  man,  it  escaped  severe  treatment  at  the 
hands  of  the  critics.  Allowances  were  made.  Dr. 
Johnson  suggests  that  a  woman's  preaching  should 
not  be  criticized ;  rather,  one  should  be  surprised  that 
she  does  it  at  all.  Thus  amiably  was  my  writing  con- 
sidered. It  was,  however,  rather  disconcerting  to  dis- 
cover that  in  no  single  instance,  I  believe,  was  I 
asked  a  question  that  I  was  able  to  answer.  This 
leads  me  to  reach  the  profound  conclusion  that  there 
are  many  more  questions  than  answers  in  this  world. 

One  thing  greatly  surprised  me :  it  seems  that  my 
book  had  created  the  very  erroneous  idea  that  all 
old  books  are  valuable,  especially  those  in  which  /'s 
take  the  place  of  s's.  This  form  —  which  began 
almost  with  the  art  of  printing,  continued  through- 
out the  eighteenth  century,  and  signifies  exactly 
nothing  at  all  —  was  supposed  to  be  a  mark  of  spe- 
cial significance ;  and  it  took  all  the  tact  I  was  master 
of  to  break  the  news  of  its  lack  of  significance  gently 
to  those  who  were  thinking  of  selling  a  few  volumes 
which  had  long  been  regarded  as  invaluable  family 
treasures. 

When  the  famous  Gutenberg  Bible  was  bought  by 
Mr.  Huntington  at  the  Hoe  sale  in  New  York,  in 
1911,  people  generally  —  especially  in  the  remote 
country  —  formed  the  idea  that,  Mr.  Gutenberg  hav- 
ing recently  died,  his  widow  had  disposed  of  the  fam- 
ily Bible  for  the  sum  of  fifty  thousand  dollars,  and, 
it  was  thought,  would  be  willing  to  pay  a  substantial 
fraction  of  this  sum  for  any  other  old  Bible  that  might 
be  offered.  Consequently,  "Mrs.  Gutenberg"  was 


ON  COMMENCING  AUTHOR  49 

overwhelmed  with  offerings  of  Bibles,  most  of  which 
would  have  been  dear  at  one  dollar. 

In  like  manner,  I  was  overwhelmed  with  offerings 
of  Burns.  I  had  casually  mentioned,  in  speaking  of  a 
Kilmarnock  Burns  in  boards  uncut,  that  the  price 
might  be  about  five  thousand  dollars.  The  book  was 
published  in  1786,  and  the  reasoning  which  went  on 
in  the  minds  of  those  who  addressed  me  on  the  sub- 
ject seems  to  have  been :  if  a  copy  of  Burns  printed 
one  hundred  and  twenty-five  years  ago  is  worth  five 
thousand  dollars,  a  copy  half  as  old  would  be  worth 
half  as  much ;  certainly  a  copy  of  Burns  printed  in 
1825  must  be  worth,  say,  a  thousand  dollars. 

One  old  lady,  suffering  from  sciatica  and  desirous 
of  spending  some  months  at  Mount  Clemens,  de- 
cided to  part  with  her  copy  for  this  amount.  She 
wrote  me  as  follows:  "My  copy  of  Burns  belonged  to 
my  grandfather.  It  is  of  1825  edition,  bound  with 
gilt  edges,  and  is  in  fair  condition  for  so  old  a  book 
(almost  a  hundred  years) .  It  is  of  course  very  yellow 
and  some  pages  are  much  worn;  however,  it  is  all 
there:9 

Another  lady  wrote:  "Under  standing  you  are  de- 
sirous of  buying  old  books,  I  write  to  say  that  I 
know  of  families  having  same  in  then*  possession. 
Before  I  make  inquiry  I  want  to  get  all  the  infor- 
mation possible.  I  am  anxious  to  make  money  in  a 
pleasing  way,  and  this  seems  along  the  lines  of  my 
taste  and  inclinations.  Please  let  me  know  what  you 
want  to  buy,  by  return  mail."  Not  getting  a  reply 
by  return  mail,  she  wrote  another  letter,  this  time 


50  ON  COMMENCING  AUTHOR 

sending  a  stamped  envelope  :  "I  wrote  you  recently 
about  old  books.  I  am  anxious  to  begin.  Please  write 
at  once,  sending  me  a  list  of  books  that  are  valuable." 

From  a  man  in  Texas  came  this  gem,  on  a  letter- 
head of  William  Crawford,  who  called  himself  an 
Electrician,  Plumber,  and  Steamfitter :  "Dear  Sir: 
I  understand  you  have  gotten  out  a  book  giving  a 
list  of  old  books  that  are  valuable.  Does  it  come 
free  of  charge  ?  If  so,  send  it  right  along,  as  I  know 
where  some  books  are  that  I  would  like  to  know  the 
value  of." 

Many  of  these  tributes  to  my  genius  I  owe  to  the 
editor  of  that  enterprising  journal,  the  Kansas  City 
"Star,"  for  an  excellent  review  which  appeared  in 
that  paper, —  I  call  it  excellent  because  it  was  so 
flattering, —  and  which  was  copied  far  and  wide, 
even  in  the  metropolitan  press.  It  created  the  idea 
that  I  knew  all  that  was  to  be  known  about  the  en- 
trancing subject  of  book-collecting.  "Get  hold  of  a 
book  entitled  'The  Amenities  of  Book-Collecting/ 
by  A.  Edward  Newton,  and  you  will  find  therein  the 
golden  key  that  will  open  up  for  you  whatever  there 
is  of  mystery  about  the  game,"  the  review  said. 

This  "golden-key"  business  bedeviled  me  for  a 
tune.  I  was  asked  to  send  forward  promptly  the 
"golden  key,"  and  at  the  time,  not  having  seen  the 
article,  I  was  quite  hi  the  dark  to  know  what  was 
meant.  It  seemed  as  if,  the  moment  this  phrase  met 
the  eye  of  the  reader,  he  or  she  followed  the  instruc- 
tions au  pied  de  la  lettre.  One  man,  evidently  a  busi- 
ness man  in  Minnesota  with  no  time  for  the  "  Ameni- 


ON  COMMENCING  AUTHOR  51 

ties/'  wrote  me  briefly  and  to  the  point:  "Give  me 
all  particulars  about  old  rare  books.  Send  me  the 
4 golden  key'  at  once.  I  have  some." 

My  prize  letter,  however,  reached  me  in  England. 
It  is  a  pretty  generally  accepted  opinion  over  there 
that  every  American  is  a  millionaire,  and  when  the 
English  think  of  us,  it  is  usually  to  call  to  mind  the 
old  adage  about  a  fool  and  his  money.  My  corre- 
spondent certainly  did  when  he  penned  this  gem  :  — 

11  CLOVELLY  ROAD,  HORNSEY,  LONDON, 

October  30,  1920. 
DEAR  SIR  :  — 

I  have  in  my  possession  a  book  called  "Catulli  Tibulli 
et  Propertii  Opera,"  the  works  of  Catullus,  Tibullus,  & 
Propertius,  Latin  poets,  in  Latin,  published  at  London 
1715  by  Tonson  &  Watts.  It  has  the  following  important 
inscription:  "James  Boswell  Cambridge  1760.  A  Present 
from  my  friend  Temple."  You  can  have  this  extremely 
interesting  memento  of  the  famous  friendship  between 
Boswell  and  Temple  for  one  thousand  pounds. 

As  I  understand  from  the  "Bookman's  Journal"  that 
you  are  at  present  in  London,  I  shall  be  pleased  to  wait 
upon  you,  if  you  so  desire  it,  to  show  you  the  book.  I  have 
addressed  this  letter  c/o  your  publisher,  Mr.  Lane. 
Hoping  to  hear  from  you  at  your  convenience,  I  am, 

Yours  v.  truly, 

PETER  STRUTHERS. 

Now  think  of  it !  But  for  the  kindness  of  my  cor- 
respondent, I  might  never  have  suspected  that  Catul- 
lus, Tibullus,  and  Propertius  were  Latin  poets;  and 
no  doubt  Mr.  Struthers's  mind  was  working  nor- 
mally when  he  assumed  that  an  American  would  be 


52  ON  COMMENCING  AUTHOR 

willing  to  acquire  the  volume  for  a  sum  almost  equal, 
at  the  normal  rate  of  exchange,  to  five  thousand 
dollars  !  Disappointed,  he  may  by  this  time  have  sold 
his  "interesting  memento"  to  some  dealer  in  the 
Charing  Cross  Road  for  a  few  shillings,  and  I  may 
yet  become  the  owner  of  it  for  a  guinea,  at  which 
figure  it  would  be  by  no  means  a  bargain. 

From  the  days  of  the  Phoenicians  the  English  have 
been  fixing  both  the  buying  and  the  selling  price.  It 
is  no  accident,  but  industry  directed  by  intelligence, 
that  has  made  them  the  greatest  traders  in  the  world. 
If  you  doubt  this  statement,  read  "  England's  Treas- 
ure by  Forraign  Trade,"  by  Thomas  Mun;  it  was 
written  almost  three  hundred  years  ago,  but  a  mod- 
ern reprint  is  readily  obtainable.  At  the  moment, 
they  are  in  debt  to  us,  and  the  idea  is  very  distaste- 
ful to  them ;  so  distasteful  that  they  propose  that  we 
should  cancel  our  loans  to  them,  in  exchange  for 
which  courtesy  they  propose  to  cancel  loans  to  their 
insolvent  debtors  to  an  equal  amount.  It  sounds  pre- 
posterous, but  is  it  ? 

Europe,  they  say,  cannot  possibly  pay  its  debts. 
I  doubt  if  it  can.  The  debt  of  the  Allied  nations  to  us 
is,  roughly,  ten  billion  dollars ;  the  interest  charge 
alone  will  soon  amount  to  two  million  dollars  a  day  ! 
Think  of  it !  Theoretically,  the  debt,  both  principal 
and  interest,  is  payable  in  gold ;  actually,  it  must  be 
paid  in  merchandise,  for  there  is  not  enough  gold  to  go 
round.  Do  we  Americans  want  ten  billion  dollars' 
worth  of  manufactured  goods  or  staples  seeping  into 
this  country?  Would  not  farmer  and  manufacturer 


ON  COMMENCING  AUTHOR  53 

alike  build  a  tariff  wall  to  prevent  it  ?  And  if  we  could 
collect  the  money  over  a  long  term  of  years,  should 
we  be  wise  to  do  so,  thereby  bankrupting  our  best 
customer?  Would  it  not  be  better  to  get  down  to 
brass  tacks,  fund  the  debt,  spread  it  over  a  term  of 
years,  and  pay  it  ourselves  ?  We  now  know  what  it 
costs  to  elect  a  president  on  the  issue  "He  kep'  us 
out  of  war,"  when  we  should  have  been  in  it,  and 
the  price  of  "  Making  the  world  safe  for  Democracy  " ; 
I,  for  one,  maintain  that  it  is  not  worth  it. 

There  is  only  one  mistake  we  have  not  yet  made, 
and  that  is,  having  finally  become  convinced  that  it 
would  be  unwise  or  impossible  to  collect  the  debt,  to 
continue  to  hold  it  over  our  late  allies  and  talk  about 
our  generosity  in  not  pushing  our  claim. 

But  to  return  to  my  correspondence,  after  this 
brief  foray  into  the  dismal  science. 

I  received  some  letters  which  would  give  delight 
even  to  so  hardened  an  author  as  H.  G.  Wells.  Cap- 
tains of  Industry,  whose  names  are  household  words 
in  Wall  Street,  seem  to  have  found  relief  from  the 
cares  of  the  hour  in  my  pages ;  and  officers  just  re- 
turned from  duty  in  France,  anxious  to  forget  the 
horrors  of  the  Argonne,  dipped  into  me  as  if  I  were  a 
bath  of  oblivion.  Finally,  I  was  asked  to  name  my 
price  for  lectures.  Of  the  many  unexpected  results  of 
my  little  success,  this  was  the  most  amusing.  I  in- 
variably replied  to  requests  for  "terms"  by  a  story 
told  me  by  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  the  great  Oxford 
scholar.  A  friend,  being  asked  to  name  his  fee  for  a 


54  ON  COMMENCING  AUTHOR 

lecture,  replied,  "I  have  a  three-guinea  lecture  and  a 
five-guinea  lecture  and  a  ten-guinea  lecture,  but  I 
can't  honestly  recommend  the  three-guinea  lecture." 
I  said  that  I  had  only  three-guinea  lectures  in  stock 
and  that  I  could  n't  recommend  them,  especially  as  I 
should  have  to  charge  a  hundred  guineas  for  them. 
No  doubt  my  correspondents  thought  me  mad. 

It  was  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  who  suggested  that  I 
write  a  paper  on  Mrs.  Thrale,  although  my  title  for 
it,  "A  Light-Blue  Stocking,"  is  my  own.  And  speak- 
ing of  Sir  Walter,  let  me  tell  a  story  of  him,  which  I 
have  never  seen  in  print,  but  which  deserves  to  be 
immortal. 

He  was  to  deliver  a  series  of  ten-guinea  lectures  at 
Princeton  University,  and  was  expecting  to  be  met 
by  President  Hibben  at  the  railway  station.  Just  at 
the  hour  of  his  arrival,  Dr.  Hibben  discovered  that 
he  had  a  very  important  meeting  of  the  trustees,  or 
something,  which  he  could  not  very  well  miss.  There 
was  nothing  to  be  done  but  call  upon  one  of  the 
younger  professors  to  go  to  the  station,  meet  the 
distinguished  man,  and  escort  him  to  "Prospect," 
Dr.  Hibben's  residence. 

The  professor  thus  called  upon  was  glad  to  be  of 
service,  but  remarked,  "I  have  never  met  Sir  Walter. 
How  shall  I  know  him  ?" 

"Oh,  very  easily,"  replied  Dr.  Hibben ;  "Sir  Walter 
is  a  very  large,  distinguished-looking  man.  You  can't 
miss  him ;  you  will  probably  know  almost  every  man 
getting  off  the  train  from  New  York ;  the  man  you 
don't  know  will  be  the  man  you  are  looking  for." 


ON  COMMENCING  AUTHOR  55 

With  these  instructions  Dr.  Hibben's  representa- 
tive proceeded  to  the  station,  met  the  incoming  train, 
and  seeing  a  large,  distinguished-looking  man  wearing 
a  silk  hat,  approached  him,  remarking,  "I  presume  I 
am  addressing  Sir  Walter  Raleigh." 

The  gentleman  thus  accosted  was  much  astonished, 
but,  pulling  himself  together,  quickly  replied,  "  No  ! 
I  'm  Christopher  Columbus.  You  will  find  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh  in  the  smoking-car  playing  poker  with  Queen 
Elizabeth." 

The  man,  as  it  turned  out,  was  a  New  York  banker ; 
he  had  heard  much  of  the  impudence  of  the  Prince- 
ton undergraduate  and  decided  to  nip  it  in  the  bud. 
No  one  enjoyed  the  story  more  than  Sir  Walter  him- 
self when  it  was  told  him. 

In  the  words  of  "Koheleth,"  —  as  my  friend  Dr. 
Jastrow  prefers  to  call  the  author  of  "Ecclesiastes," 
in  his  delightful  book,  "The  Gentle  Cynic,"  —  "Hear 
the  conclusion  of  the  whole  matter :  '  Much  study  is 
weariness  to  the  flesh.'"  —  "Much"  study,  observe. 
I  have  given  my  subject  only  such  study  as  has  pro- 
duced, not  weariness,  but  pleasure.  Books  are  for  me 
a  solace  and  a  joy.  We  are  told  that  of  the  making  of 
them  there  is  no  end.  Be  it  so.  Let  us  rejoice  that, 
whatever  comes,  books  will  continue  to  be,  books 
that  suit  our  every  mood  and  fancy.  If  all  is  vanity, 
as  "The  Preacher"  says,  how  can  we  better  employ 
our  time  than  by  reading  books  and  writing  about 
them? 


Ill 

LUCK 

I  AM  a  strong  believer  in  luck.  I  know  that  Emer- 
son says  that  luck  is  the  refuge  of  the  shallow,  but 
I  don't  care  much  what  one  philospher  says ;  I  will 
find  you  another  philosopher  of  equal  standing  who 
will  flatly  disagree.  Gibbon,  in  his  fascinating  "Auto- 
biography," speaks  of  his  life  as  being  the  lucky 
chance  of  one  unit  against  millions ;  and  in  propor- 
tion to  my  deserts  I  have  been  far  luckier  than  he ; 
but  we  can  have  too  much  of  a  good  thing.  I  once 
heard  a  story  of  a  man  who,  walking  along  a  coun- 
try road,  noticed  a  horse-shoe  lying  at  his  feet,  and, 
picking  it  up,  remarked  to  himself,  "I'm  in  luck." 
A  few  yards  farther  on  he  picked  up  another,  saying 
as  he  did  so,  "This  is  certainly  my  lucky  day."  A 
little  farther  on  he  came  across  another,  and  then 
another,  and  he  kept  on  picking  them  up  until  he 
was  loaded  down  with  them.  Finally  he  saw,  some 
distance  ahead  of  him,  a  large  wagon  full  of  old,  rusty 
horse-shoes,  on  its  way  to  the  junk-heap,  which  led 
him  to  make  the  wise  observation  that  too  much 
luck  is  junk. 

In  trudging  along  the  dusty  road  of  life,  I  have 
picked  up  symbols  of  luck  just  often  enough  to  make 
me  feel  sure  that  they  were  not  falling  from  an  over- 
loaded wagon.  I  was  lucky  when  my  wife  picked  me 


LUCK  57 

out  for  her  husband  and  so  delicately  ensnared  me 
that  I  thought  I  was  doing  the  courting.  My  chil- 
dren have  not  been  a  bitter  disappointment,  and  I 
have  been  singularly  blessed  in  the  matter  of  a  busi- 
ness partner.  And  finally,  I  wrote  a  book,  the  suc- 
cess of  which  I  feel  sure  made  even  my  friends  admit 
that  I  was  right,  at  least  once,  when  I  said  that  my 
achievements  were  largely  —  luck.  How  my  book 
came  to  be  published  was  told  in  the  introduction, 
and  need  not  be  told  over  again.  Nor  am  I  now  con- 
cerned with  the  impression  it  made  on  others ;  its 
readers  could  work  their  way  through  its  pages  and 
forget  it,  but  its  publication  had  a  profound  effect 
upon  its  writer.  It  gave  him  a  reputation  as  a  col- 
lector so  far  above  that  which  he  merited  that,  in  an 
effort  to  live  up  to  it,  he  has  well-nigh  ruined  him- 
self. We  are  so  constituted  that  we  never  care  to  hear 
much  of  the  successes  of  our  friends  ;  but  their  diffi- 
culties are  very  comforting  to  us,  and,  properly  set 
down,  make  very  pretty  reading ;  so  I  continue. 

The  foolish  and  ignorant  frequently  say  to  me : 
"However  do  you  find  such  lovely  and  wonderful 
things?"  "Lovely"  and  "wonderful"  are  the  words 
they  use ;  and  when,  in  reply,  I  tell  them  that  the  diffi- 
culty is  not  in  the  finding  but  in  the  paying  for  such 
treasures  as  I  seem  to  require  for  my  reputation's 
sake,  they  think  that  I  am  spoofing  them,  to  use  a 
word  we  have  borrowed  from  our  English  cousins. 

There  is,  of  course,  a  certain  class  of  literary  prop- 
erty to  which  I  have  no  right  —  items  so  far  above 
my  means  that  they  make  no  appeal  whatever.  I 


58  LUCK 

remember  once  hearing  an  old  gentleman  of  consid- 
erable means  say,  in  reply  to  my  question  why  he  did 
not  buy  such  and  such  things  that  I  knew  he  would 
enjoy :  "I  would  like  to  have  them,  of  course ;  but  if  I 
should  buy  them,  what  would  the  Vanderbilts  buy  ?" 
In  like  manner,  assuming  that  the  possession  of  a 
pocketful  of  Shakespeare  quartos  meant  more  to  me 
than  the  possession  of  wife  and  children  with  a  tight 
roof  over  our  heads,  and  that  I  should  yield  to  temp- 
tation, what  would  the  real  collectors  do  ? 

But  there  are  countless  items  in  what  may  be 
called  the  second  class,  which  formerly  used  to  come 
my  way  and  tempt  me  occasionally,  but  which  now 
come  in  close  formation.  Such  defense  as  I  am  able 
to  make  seems  to  have  no  effect  whatever.  If  life  is, 
as  life  is  said  to  be,  just  one  damn  thing  after  an- 
other, what  shall  be  said  of  my  existence,  tempera- 
mentally fitted  to  withstand  everything  except  temp- 
tation ?  And  the  arguments  of  my  friends,  the  book- 
sellers, are  so  skillf  ully  brought  to  bear ;  they  scratch 
where  it  itches,  and  I  am  so  grateful  —  until  the  first 
of  the  month,  when  the  bills  come  in. 

I  had  supposed  that  I  could'  resist  flattery.  I  have 
been  selling  something  or  other  all  my  life.  I  know 
something  of  the  wiles  of  the  class  to  which  I  belong ; 
but  since  I  first  tried  my  prentice-hand  at  making  a 
living  by  selling  things,  a  class  has  grown  up  so  skill- 
ful that  I  am  —  how  does  the  old  phrase  go  ?  —  but 
wax  in  their  hands.  Be  this  as  it  may,  my  ruin  is 
impending  —  I  know  it  is ;  and  when  the  sheriff  gets 
me,  as  he  surely  will,  and  to  satisfy  my  creditors  my 


LUCK  59 

books  have  to  be  sold,  I  have  decided  just  what  title 
my  friend  Mitchell  Kennerley,  that  genial  soul  who 
presides  over  the  fortunes  of  the  Anderson  Auction 
Company  in  New  York,  will  put  upon  my  sales 
catalogue :  — 

WHO'LL  BUY,  WHO'LL  BUY 
THE  BOOKS  OF  A  BUSTED  BIBLIOPHILE? 

And  in  imagination  I  can  hear  the  auctioneer  saying  : 
"Now,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  if  I  may  have  your 
attention,  we  will  sell  the  library  of  a  collector  well 
known  to  many  of  you.  The  books  are  all  in  good 
condition,  having  been  collected  by  one  who  was 
careful  to  admit  nothing  into  his  library,  etc.  If  you 
will  turn  to  the  first  item  in  your  catalogue,  we'll 
begin  the  sale.  'A'Beekett,  Comic  History  of  Eng- 
land. First  edition,  two  volumes,  in  original  cloth.' 
How  much  am  I  bid  ?  —  Thank  you,"  and  so  on, 
down  to  Zaehnsdorf's  "Short  History  of  Book- 
binding." 

And  it  won't  be  so  bad !  Better  men  than  I  have 
parted  with  their  books  —  better  men,  mind  you, 
but  none  with  a  greater  love  of  books  than  I ;  and 
if  my  present  collection  has  to  be  jettisoned,  I'll  at 
once  begin  collecting  over  again.  Not  from  me  shall 
arise  a  sombre  sonnet,  "To  My  Books  on  Parting 
With  Them" — for  two  reasons:  in  the  first  place, 
I  could  not  write  a  sonnet  with  a  set  of  the  "first 
folios "  as  a  reward ;  and  the  second  reason  is  tem- 
peramental :  I  have  never  allowed  myself  to  become 
"sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought." 

And  maybe  the  sale  won't  take  place,  after  all. 


60 


LUCK 


plea- 


Otmtanfcpiofitft* 


Maybe  I'll  be  able  to  compound  with  my  creditors 
for  a  penny  in  the  pound.  I  have  heard  of  such 
terms,  and  I  cannot  imagine  anything  more  satis- 
factory. I  must  have  had  some  such  terms  as  these 

in  my  mind  when  a 
little  Skelton  work- 
ed its  way  into  my 
library,  and  took  its 
place  on  my  shelves 
just  alongside  my 
copy  of  the  first  edi- 
tion of  Piers  Plow- 
man. Now,  Skeltons 
are  rare ;  even  Bev- 
erly Chew  admits 
that.  What  was  it  he 
said  in  his  introduc- 


ttcr  Skelton, 

Pocte  Lau- 

reate. 

collected  atft 

nclulp  ptibllfljco. 


1568. 


* 

* 

London  hi  Flettjlrtdtef 
neart  lento  faint  (Dunflonet 


bfarfhe. 


tion  to  the  sale  cata- 
logue of  the  Hagen 
books?  "If  I  were 
asked  what  is  the 
scarcest  item  in  the 
sale,  I  should  unhes- 
itatingly say,  that  charming  little  volume  contain- 
ing four  poems  of  John  Skelton,  Poet  Laureate  to 
King  Henry  VII."  That  little  paragraph  did  for 
me,  followed  as  it  was  by  this:  "One who  followed 
with  some  apprehension  Mr.  Hagen' s  continual 
investment  in  books  said  he  thought  he  would  do 
better  to  purchase  good  bonds.  'No,'  said  Hagen, 
'my  books  are  worth  more  than  your  bonds.'  Let 


LUCK 


61 


us  hope  he  was  right ;  recent  events  would  seem  to 
confirm  his  judgment." 

Well,  it  turned  out  just  as  he  had  hoped.  I  went  to 
the  sale  with  that  "What  would  the  Vanderbilts 
buy  ?"  story  in  the  back 
of  my  head;  and  from 
where  I  sat  it  seemed  as 
if  the  whole  family  were 
competing  for  the  Skel- 
ton.  I  don't  know  who 
got  it,  but  the  auction- 
eer's hammer  fell  when 
someone  said  "$9700," 
and  then  and  there  I 
determined  to  have  a 
Skelton — not  the  edition 
of  1520,  of  course,  but 
a  Skelton,  nevertheless : 
say  the  "Pithy,  Pleas- 
aunt  and  Profitable 
Workes,  nowe  collected 
and  newly  published. 
Anno  1568."  And  so 
when,  a  year  or  two  later,  a  fine  black-letter  copy  in 
contemporary  vellum  turned  up  in  London,  where 
Wells  got  it  and  brought  it  to  New  York,  what  was 
I  to  do  ?  Reader,  what  would  you  have  done  ? 
Well,  that 's  exactly  what  I  did,  and  that 's  how  this 
dainty  little  volume  snuggled  its  way  into  this  room, 
where  it  seemingly  is  quite  as  much  at  home  as  it 
was  in  Mr.  Thomas  Marshe's  shoppe  in  Fletestreate 


COLIN   CLOVTS 

Come  home  againe. 


LONDON 
Primed  for  rv Alton  Ptxjvatie. 

I  t  9 


(Observe  the  spelling  of  the  author's 
name  in  this  facsimile.) 


62  LUCK 

neare  unto  saint  Dunstones  Churche,  three  hundred 
and  fifty  years  ago.  I  smoked  several  cheap  cigars 
on  the  night  of  its  arrival  —  one  has  to  economize 
in  something. 

One  great  temptation  I  have  so  far  avoided,— 
Restoration  Plays, —  assisted  in  my  escape  by  their 
rarity  and  consequent  high  prices.  These  little  vol- 
umes, many  of  them  bearing  titles  which  can  hardly 
be  mentioned  when  ladies  are  around,  fascinate 
scholar  and  collector  alike.  No  one  who  knows  him 
would,  I  fancy,  dispute  Dr.  Schelling's  claim  to  have 
read  every  old  play  in  our  literature.  And  they  had 
the  same  fascination  for  Trollope,  who  in  his  "Auto- 
biography" says  :  "Of  late  years,  putting  aside  the 
Latin  classics,  I  have  found  my  greatest  pleasure  in 
our  old  English  dramatists, —  not  from  any  exces- 
sive love  of  their  work,  which  often  irritates  me  by 
its  want  of  truth  to  nature  even  while  it  shames  me 
by  its  language, —  but  from  curiosity  in  searching 
then*  plots  and  examining  their  character.  If  I  live 
a  few  years  longer,  I  shall,  I  think,  leave  in  my  copies 
of  these  dramatists,  down  to  the  close  of  James  I,  writ- 
ten criticisms  on  every  play.  No  one  who  has  not 
looked  closely  into  it  knows  how  many  there  are. 

But  if  I  have  so  far  withstood  the  lure  of  the  drama, 
the  desire  to  own  first  editions  of  those  poets  who 
have  done  so  much  to  fix  our  language  and  who  have 
enriched  our  common  inheritance  beyond  that  of 
other  nations,  is  strong  and  will  not  be  denied.  Al- 
though I  boast  a  "Colin  Clout"  and  "The  Faerie 
Queene,"  it  is  not  until  I  reach  the  "Hesperides"  of 


LUCK 


63 


Herrick  that  I  really  enjoy  myself.  This  lovely  book 
opens  up  a  whole  train  of  wants,  satisfied,  thank 
Heaven,  in  Lovelace's  "Lucasta,"  Suckling's  "Frag- 
menta  Aurea,"  and  Carew  (one  of  the  Gentlemen  of 
the  Privie  Bed-Chamber  and  Sewer  in  Ordinary  to 
His  Majesty),  his  "Po- 
ems," and  many  more, 
right  down  to  Brown- 
ing's "Men  and  Wom- 
en," two  small  volumes, 
containing  some  of  his 
best  poetry,  without 
which  no  collection  of 
the  poets  is  worthy  of 
the  name. 

It  is  a  curious  thing, 
what  trifling  incidents 
give  a  slant  to  one's  col- 
lecting ;  all  through  life 
it  is  the  same  story 
One  goes  to  a  party, 
passes  a  dish  of  ice- 
cream to  a  person  with 
a  pair  of  particularly  bright  eyes,  becomes  engaged, 
married,  and  done  for  almost  before  one  knows  it. 
My  interest  in  Defoe  came  about  just  as  fortuitously. 
Many  years  ago  I  was  spending  a  week  or  so  in  Ox- 
ford, occasionally  running  up  to  London  on  business. 
One  day  my  affairs  took  me  into  the  City  Road,  and 
having  an  hour  to  spare,  I  spent  it  prowling  around 
in  Bunhill  Fields  Burying  Ground,  looking  at  the 


64 


LUCK 


POEMS. 


graves  of  the  all-but-forgotten  worthies  buried  there. 
Quite  unexpectedly  I  came  upon  the  grave  of  Bun- 
yan,  and  a  little  later  upon  that  of  Defoe,  erected  by 

the  subscriptions  of 
the  school  -  children 
of  England.  The  dis- 
covery gave  me  a 
pleasant  thrill.  That 
evening,  after  dinner, 
in  a  tiny  smoking- 
room  of  the  King's 
Arms  in  Oxford,  I 
fell  into  conversation 
with  an  American 
gentleman  who  ap- 
peared interested  in 
Defoe,  and  to  him, 
in  a  few  well-chosen 
words,!  imparted  my 
opinion  of  the  author 
of  "  Robinson  Cru- 


THOMAS  CAREVV 
Efquire, 

One  of  the  Gentlemen  of  die 

Privic-Chamber  ,  and  Sewer  in 

O  rdinary  to  His  Majcfly. 


LONDON. 

Printed  by  7.  D.  for  Ihmu  Wnlklej, 

and  are  to  be  fold  at  the  figne  of  the 

flying  Horfc,  between  Brittains 

Jtorfc,  andYork-Honfe. 


soe. "  He  agreed  with 
me,  set  me  right  here 
and  there,  and  was  a  very  charming  companion  alto- 
gether. Subsequently,  I  was  rather  disconcerted  when 
I  discovered  that  I  had  been  explaining  Defoe  to  the 
greatest  living  authority  on  that  author  —  Professor 
William  P.  Trent  of  Columbia  University.  He  was 
spending  a  summer  in  Oxford,  engaged  in  the  well- 
nigh  insuperable  task  of  studying  Defoe  pamphlets 
in  the  Bodleian  Library, 


LUCK 


65 


JOURNAL 

or  THE 

plague  gear : 


BEING 


Obfervatlons  or  Memorials. 


Of  tie   mod  Remarkable 


OCCURRENCES, 


As  a  child,  I  think  I  preferred  "The  Swiss  Family 
Robinson"  to  "Robinson  Crusoe,"  and  I  remember 
wondering  what  relation  the  one  Robinson  was  to 
the  other.  We  are  told 
that  the  discovery  of 
the  print  of  a  man's 
naked  foot  in  the  sand 
is  the  greatest  bit  of 
realism  in  fiction.  No 
doubt  it  is,  but  we 
must  not  overlook 
the  "Journal  of  the 
Plague  Year. "  It  was 
published  shortly  af- 
ter "Robinson  Cru- 
soe" ;  and  of  the  many 
books  on  the  Great 
Plague  of  London,  it 
is  the  only  one  that  has 
survived  "the  tooth 
of  envious  time."  It 
remained  for  another 
American  scholar,  Dr. 
Watson  Nicholson,  to 
point  out  the  manner 

in  which  this  book  was  compiled.  Defoe,  sometimes 
called  the  father  of  the  English  novel,  was  in  fact  what 
we  would  to-day  call  a  journalist.  He  set  himself  to  a 
piece  of  work,  got  his  facts  together  as  accurately  as 
he  could,  working  under  pressure, —  writing,  so  to 
speak,  against  time, —  and  then,  by  representing  him- 


PUBLICK  as  PRIVATE, 

Which  happened  in 

I   0    N  D    ON 

During  the  bit 

GREAT  VISITATION 
In 


Written  67  a  CITIZEN  who  continued  all  the 
while  in  Lstuden.  Never  rruule  publick  before 

L    0    N   <D    O    N: 

Printed  for  E.  ffftt  at  the  Rojal-Extbaa^e;  J.  Rolrrti 
in  Waraiick-Laat  ;  A.  DcJJ  without  7emflt-£ar  j 
scd  J.  Groves  in  St.  Jamti's-Jlreet.  1711. 


66 


LUCK 


THE 


FORTUNES 


AND 


MISFORTUNES 

Of  the  FAMOUS 


self  as  present  at  the  events  which  he  describes,  de- 
ceived his  readers  so  completely  that  they  accepted 
the  result  as  the  actual  narration  of  an  eye-witness. 
First  of  all  regarded  as  an  authentic  history,  next  as 
clever  fiction,  we  to-day  know  the  book  for  what  it 

is :  a  hastily  written  but 
wonderfully  realistic  ac- 
count of  one  of  the 
most  tragic  events  in 
the  history  of  the  city 
of  London.  Through- 
out its  entire  length, 
every  page  records 
some  fact  or  fancy 
which  makes  for  real- 
ity. My  copy  is  in 
superlative  condition — 
bound  but  uncut,  as 
is  also  my  "  Moll  Flan- 
ders," with  its  all- 
comprehending  title- 
page.  And  there  are 
many  more. 

It  is  only  a  step 
from  Defoe  to  Samuel  Pepys.  There  is  one  book,  at 
least,  which  no  reader,  be  he  judicious  or  she  gentle, 
will  wish  to  have  in  first  edition  —  the  immortal 
"Diary."  On  three  separate  occasions  did  I  journey 
from  London  to  Cambridge  to  see  the  Pepysian  Li- 
brary, each  time  to  be  told  that  the  custodian  "re- 
gretted that  it  was  impossible."  If  my  visit  fell  on 


Who  was  Bora'  inNEWOATE,  and  during* 
Life  of  continu'd  Variety  for  Threefcore  Years, 
T>efide«  her  Childhood,  was  Twrelye  Year  » 
TTborti  five  times  a  JTife  (whereof  once  to  .her 
own  Brother)  Twelre  Year  a  Tbief,  Eight  Ywr  a 
Tranfported  Ftb>*  ia  Virginia,**  laftgrew  Ricb, 
liv'd  #<«<•/,  and  died  a  P«Hf«rf, 

Written.  from  her  ovn  MEMORAND  u  M  s. 

LONDON.-  Printed  for,  nnd  Sold  >y  W, 
CHETWOOD,  at  Cato'+JIeaJ,  rn'RuJJel. 
freet,  Cogent-Garden  ;  and  T.  E  D  L  I  N  o,  at 


Wthc.Sfr/W.  MDDCXXL 


LUCK  67 

a  Tuesday,  it  was  on  a  Wednesday  that  the  library 
could  be  seen ;  if  I  called  in  the  morning,  the  after- 
noon was  the  proper  time.  Once  I  tried  "the  silver 
key,"  but  was  unsuccessful ;  perhaps  it  was  not  large 
enough.  The  last  time  I  was  in  Cambridge,  however, 
I  was  fortunate  enough  one  day,  in  Mr.  Heffer's 
bookshop,  to  be  introduced  to  the  present  librarian 
or  custodian,  Mr.  O.  F.  Morshead,  and  I  had  the  great 
pleasure  of  spending  a  morning  in  the  library  under 
his  delightful  guidance,  looking  at  such  treasures  as 
would  cause  the  heart  of  the  coldest  book-collector 
—  and  I  am  not  the  coldest  —  to  throb  with  excite- 
ment. 

Pepys  began  his  diary  when  he  was  twenty-seven 
years  of  age.  He  gave  up  keeping  it,  on  account  of 
failing  eyesight,  when  he  was  but  thirty-six,  which, 
he  says,  was  "almost  as  much  as  to  see  myself  go 
into  my  grave."  But  he  remained  a  collector  all  his 
life,  and  he  did  not  die  until  he  was  past  seventy. 
Not  until  after  the  close  of  the  Diary  did  he  reach  the 
maturity  of  his  power  in  the  Navy. 

What  treasures  can  a  rich  and  industrious  man 
accumulate  in  forty  years  !  Particularly  if,  as  was  at 
least  once  the  case,  he  borrowed  and  did  not  return. 
One  item  he  obtained  in  this  way  from  his  brother 
diarist,  John  Evelyn.  It  is  a  pocket-book,  a  sort  of 
an  almanac,  formerly  the  property  of  his  great  hero, 
Francis  Drake,  with  his  name,  spelled  "Drak,"  writ- 
ten therein.  It  is  of  course  of  supreme  interest,  and 
Pepys,  who  numbered  all  his  books,  gave  it  number  1. 

Pepys's  books,  about  three  thousand  in  all,  repose 


68  LUCK 

in  the  original  bookcases  which  he  had  made  in  1666 
by  Mr.  Sympson,  "the  joyner."  They  are  arranged 
according  to  a  curious  scheme  of  his  own,  exactly  as 
he  left  them.  In  point  of  fact,  the  shorthand  manu- 
script of  the  Diary  is,  at  a  cursory  glance,  one  of  the 
least  interesting  things  in  the  collection.  But  what  a 
story  is  locked  up  in  the  six  volumes  of  closely  written 
cypher ! 

Under  the  terms  of  Pepys's  will,  Magdalene  Col- 
lege is  intrusted  with  the  care  of  the  collection,  with 
reversion  to  Trinity  in  the  event  that  there  is  any 
default  in  the  rules  and  regulations  laid  down  by 
Pepys  for  its  safe  keeping  ;  and  the  manuscript  of  the 
Diary  slumbered  among  Pepys's  books  from  his 
death  in  1703  to  1825,  when  it  was  deciphered  and 
published.  But  in  the  first  edition,  only  about  half 
of  the  Diary  was  published,  and  this  was  edited  and 
expurgated  by  Lord  Braybrooke  to  an  extent  which 
became  apparent  only  by  degrees.  Some  years  later, 
a  clergyman  took  the  matter  in  hand  and,  omitting 
what  seemed  good  to  him,  suggested  that  the  com- 
plete work  might  be  found  "tedious"  !  Finally,  and 
not  until  1893,  there  appeared  an  edition,  edited  by 
H.  B.  Wheatley,  which  gave  the  Diary  complete, 
with  the  exception  of  a  few  passages,  amounting  in 
all  to  about  one  page  of  text,  which,  he  says,  cannot 
possibly  be  printed. 

What  a  book  it  is !  Without  style,  or  wit,  or  elo- 
quence ;  but  for  what  book  having  all  these  qualities 
would  we  exchange  it  ?  As  someone  has  said,  Rous- 
seau is  positively  secretive  in  comparison  with  Pepys. 


LUCK 


69 


THE  EIGHTH   SIN 


The  charm  of  the  Diary  is  its  quaint  and  utter  shame- 
lessness,  as  when  its  author  confesses  that  he  kicked 
one  of  his  maids  and  is  not  sorry  for  it,  but  he  is 
sorry  that  he  was  seen  doing  so.  Most  of  us  are  more 
like  Pepys  than  we  would  be  willing  to  confess.  We 
do  wrong  and  carry  our  heads  high,  and  are  ashamed 
only  when  we  are  „  _  , 
found  out. 

And  now  I  find  my- 
self wondering  wheth- 
er I  have  written  all 
this  just  to  intro- 
duce a  charming  bal- 
lade, worthy  of  Austin 
Dobson  at  his  best,  by 
my  friend"  Kit  "Mor- 
ley,  or  as  a  pretext  for 
referring  to  my  beau- 
tiful copy  of  Pepys's 
Memoires  of  the  Roy- 
al Navy.  Let  me  give 
the  ballade  first. 

It  would  seem  from 

an  entry  in  the  Diary  under  date  of  February  3,  1665, 
that  Pepys  had  taken  a  vow  to  abstain  from  kissing 
pretty  women  and,  in  the  event  of  his  breaking  it, 
to  give  to  some  good  cause  a  shilling  for  each  kiss 
after  the  first  one.  He  was  a  methodical  scamp,  but 
I  doubt  if  he  could  accurately  keep  count.  In  any 
event,  on  this  day,  in  addition  to  Mrs.  Turner  having 
shown  him  something  that  he  ardently  admires,  he 


C.   D.   MORLEY 


"There  is  Do  greater  Sin  after  the  seven  deadly 
than  to  flatter  oneself  into  an  idea  of  beicg  a  (real 
Poet."  Lilttri  o/Jokn  Kult. 


OXFORD 

B.  H.  BLACKWELL.  BROAD  STREET 

LONDON 
SIUPKIN,  MARSHALL  ft  CO.   LIMITED 


70  LUCK 

records  meeting,  "among  the  others,  pretty  Mrs. 
Margaret  who  indeed  is  a  very  pretty  lady ;  and, 
though  by  my  vow  it  costs  me  I%d.  a  kiss,  yet  I  did 
venture  upon  a  couple." 

Good  Mr.  Peeps  or  Peps  or  Pips 

(However  he  should  be  yclept), 
Clerk  of  the  King's  Bureau  of  Ships, 

A  very  spicy  journal  kept. 
He  knew  a  lemon  from  a  peach, 

And,  among  other  things,  he  knew, 
When  kisses  are  a  shilling  each, 

We  should  adventure  on  a  few ! 

He  was  a  connoisseur  of  lips, 

And  though  I  cannot  quite  accept 
Some  of  his  rather  shady  tips 

(I  grant  he  often  overstepped 
The  bounds  of  taste)  —  still  he  can  teach 

Misogynists  a  thing  or  two  — 
When  kisses  are  a  shilling  each, 

We  should  adventure  on  a  few ! 

He  drank  the  wine  of  life  by  sips, 

He  roundly  ate  and  soundly  slept, 
His  spirits  suffered  no  Eclipse, 

But  Lord  !  how  sore  he  would  have  wept 
To  see  his  private  linen  bleach 

And  flutter  in  the  public  view  — 
Well,  kisses  are  a  shilling  each ; 

Let  us  adventure  on  a  few ! 

ENVOY 

O  Ballad-monger,  I  beseech, 

Consider  his  advice  anew ; 
When  kisses  are  a  shilling  each, 

Why  not  adventure  on  a  few  ? 


MAP  OF  ENGLAND.  EVERY  LINE  OF  WHICH  IS  EMBROIDERED 
IN  COLORED  SILK 

The  making  of  these  maps  antedated  the  "movies"  by  a  century  or  more 


LUCK 


71 


JHcmoircs 

Relating  to  the 

STATE 

OF    THE- 

ROYAL  NAVY 


This  clever  poem  first  appeared  in  a  little  paper- 
backed volume  of  verse,  "The  Eighth  Sin,"  pub- 
lished by  Blackwell  in  Oxford  in  1912,  when  Morley, 
one  of  three  brothers, 
all  Rhodes  scholars, 
was  an  undergradu- 
ate. It  is  much  sought 
by  collectors,  and  gets 
its  title  from  a  sen- 
tence in  one  of  Keats's 
letters,  "There  is  no 
greater  Sin  after  the 
seven  deadly  than  to 
flatter  oneself  into  an 
idea  of  being  a  great 
Poet."  And  with  this 
sentiment  I  am  in  full 
accord. 

The  "Memoires  Re- 
lating to  the  State  of 
the  Royal  Navy  of 
England"  is  a  scarce 
book,  with  a  fine  por- 


OF 


ENGLAND, 

Fot  Ten  Years,  Deeermiji'd 
December  1688. 


Quant  is  moleftiis  vataM  }  t^tti  tiibil  cmnino 
cum  Populo  contrabunt  ?  Quid  DuJcutj) 
OtioLitttrtto?  Cic.  Tufc.  Difp. 

LONDON: 

(Printed  for  Etn.  Grffii,  and  are  to  be  Ibid 
by  Sam.  KtMtlt  the  Great  Tarks-He*l\n 
fieet-firttt  over  againft  Fetter-Laneti69o. 


trait  of  Pepys  after 
Kneller,  and,  to  be  correct,  must  have  a  large  folded 
plate  giving  an  account  of  the  finances  of  the  Navy 
with  the  Exchequer.  This  plate,  as  the  catalogues 
say,  is  "frequently  lacking."  I  had  almost  forgotten 
that  I  have,  too,  a  fine  letter  from  Pepys  to  his 
nephew  and  heir,  John  Jackson,  bidding  him,  when 
he  buys  anything  such  as  books,  or  prints,  to  "get 


72  LUCK 

very  good  ones  only" ;  excellent  advice  for  the  col- 
lector, and  too  little  considered  in  Pepys's  time. 

There  are,  it  is  said,  seventeen  ways  of  spelling  the 
Diarist's  name,  but  only  three  of  pronouncing  it; 
which  is  correct,  is  still  a  vexed  question.  Let  me 
quote  a  little  verse  by  Ashby  Sterry,  which  all  the 
papers  were  copying  twenty-five  years  or  so  ago,  and 
which  found  its  way  into  my  scrap-book. 

There  are  people,  I  'm  told  —  some  say  there  are  heaps  — 

Who  speak  of  the  talkative  Samuel  as  Peeps ; 

And  some  so  precise  and  pedantic  their  step  is, 

Who  call  the  delightful  old  diarist  Pepys ; 

But  those  I  think  right,  and  I  follow  their  steps, 

Ever  mention  the  garrulous  gossip  as  Peps. 

"And  so  to  bed." 


IV 

WHAT  IS  THE  MATTER  WITH  THE  BOOKSHOP? 

SOME  time  ago  my  friend  Mr.  William  Harris 
Arnold  told  me  that  he  had  written  a  paper  on  the 
welfare  of  the  bookstore.  When  it  appeared  in  the 
"Atlantic  Monthly,"  I  read  it  attentively,  and  I  dis- 
agree with  his  conclusions.  As  it  seems  to  me  that  the 
subject  is  one  in  which  all  who  read  should  be  inter- 
ested, I  should  like  to  present  my  views  for  what 
they  may  be  worth. 

Mr.  Arnold's  remedy  for  the  situation,  admittedly 
difficult,  in  which  the  retail  booksellers  find  them- 
selves is  to  have  publishers  grant  to  booksellers  "  the 
option  of  taking  books  by  outright  purchase  or  on 
memorandum "  —  that  is  to  say,  on  sale,  and  sub- 
ject to  return.  I  remember  once,  years  ago,  hearing 
the  late  Andrew  Carnegie  say  to  a  body  of  business 
men  that,  if  he  were  in  a  business  in  which  it  was  im- 
possible for  him  to  tell,  at  least  approximately,  how 
much  money  he  had  made  or  lost  in  a  given  month, 
he  would  get  out  of  that  business.  He  said  that  the 
next  best  thing  to  making  money  was  to  know  that 
you  were  not  making  it  —  and  apply  the  remedy. 
Now,  if  a  publisher  should  establish  in  any  large 
way  the  custom  of  disposing  of  his  publications  "on 
sale,"  as  the  phrase  is,  I  should  like  to  know  when,  if 
ever,  he  could  go  before  his  creditors,  represented 


74  WHAT  ABOUT  THE  BOOKSHOP? 

by  authors,  printers,  paper-makers,  and  binders,  and 
declare  himself  solvent  and  worthy  of  their  further 
confidence. 

It  seems  to  me  that  publishers  assume  sufficient 
risk,  as  it  is.  Many  books,  I  fancy,  just  about  pay 
their  way,  showing  very  little  of  either  profit  or  loss  ; 
there  may  be  a  small  profit  resulting  from  the  average 
book,  and  the  exceptional  book  shows  either  a  hand- 
some profit  —  or  a  large  loss.  "The  Four  Horsemen 
of  the  Apocalypse,"  is  the  most  recent  of  great  suc- 
cesses :  edition  followed  edition  in  such  quick  succes- 
sion that  the  publishing  facilities  of  New  York  City 
were  heavily  drawn  upon  to  keep  up  with  the  demand. 
On  the  other  hand,  many  years  ago,  the  publication 
of  "Endymion,"  by  Disraeli,  then  Earl  of  Beacons- 
field,  occasioned  an  enormous  loss.  His  publishers 
brought  out  this  novel  in  the  then  customary  three- 
volume  form  for,  I  think,  two  guineas.  No  one  read 
into  the  middle  of  the  second  volume.  It  was  a  com- 
plete failure.  A  few  months  after  publication  every 
second-hand  bookshop  in  London  was  trying  to  dis- 
pose of  uncut,  and  unopened,  "library"  copies  at 
about  the  cost  of  binding.  It  must  be  admitted  that 
these  are  extreme  instances  :  the  profit  in  the  one  case 
must  have  amounted  to  a  small  fortune ;  the  losses  in 
the  other  might  have  driven  the  publisher  into 
bankruptcy. 

The  publishing  business  has  always  been  regarded 
as  extra-hazardous  —  more  respectable  than  the 
theatrical  business  and  less  exciting,  but  resembling 
it  in  that  one  never  knows  whether  one  is  embarked 


FOUR  DISTINGUISHED  COLLECTORS 

PROF.  C.  B.  TINKER  MR.  W.  H.  ARNOLD 

.MR.  R.  B.  ADAM  MR.  W.  F.  GABLE 


WHAT  ABOUT  THE  BOOKSHOP?  75 

upon  a  success  or  a  failure  until  it  is  too  late  to  with- 
draw. And  it  has  always  been  so.  Sir  Walter  Scott, 
whose  career  as  a  publisher  is  not  always  remembered, 
said  that  the  booksellers,  as  publishers  were  called  in 
his  day,  were  "the  only  tradesmen  in  the  world  who 
professedly  and  by  choice  dealt  in  what  is  called  'a 
pig  in  a  poke,'  publishing  twenty  books  in  hopes  of 
hitting  upon  one  good  speculation,  as  a  person  buys 
shares  in  a  lottery  in  hopes  of  gaining  a  prize"  ;  and 
Sir  Walter  had  reason  to  know,  as  had  also  Mark 
Twain. 

I  remember  that,  some  years  ago,  a  little  book, 
"  A  Publisher's  Confessions,"  was  issued  anonymously 
by  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co.  It  recited  the  difficulties, 
financial  and  other,  of  a  firm  of  publishers,  and  is  now 
generally  understood  to  have  been  written  by  Walter 
Hines  Page,  our  late  Ambassador  to  the  Court  of  St. 
James's.  The  writer's  conclusion  was  that  men  of 
such  distinction  as  those  who  control  the  organiza- 
tions known  as  Scribners,  Macmillans,  and  others  of 
like  standing,  could  earn  very  much  more  by  devot- 
ing their  abilities  to  banking,  railroads,  or  other  lines 
of  business;  for,  he  said,  "publishing  as  publishing 
is  the  least  profitable  of  all  professions,  except 
preaching  and  teaching,  to  each  of  which  it  is  a  sort 
of  cousin."  And  it  is  to  this  harassed  person,  per- 
plexed, by  reason  of  the  nature  of  his  calling,  beyond 
most  business  men,  that  Mr.  Arnold  would  add  the 
financing  of  the  countless  bookstores,  in  many  cases 
in  incompetent  hands,  all  over  the  country,  from 
Maine  to  California.  His  suggestion  is  interesting, 


76  WHAT  ABOUT  THE  BOOKSHOP? 

but  I  doubt  if  publishers  in  any  large  numbers  will 
take  kindly  to  it.  They  will  probably  feel  that  Mr. 
Arnold,  whom  I  last  saw  in  his  own  library  surrounded 
by  his  own  priceless  books,  apparently  free  from 
problems  of  any  kind,  has  suggested  a  remedy  worse 
than  the  disease  from  which  they  are  suffering. 

It  is,  however,  to  the  bookseller  rather  than  to  the 
publisher  that  my  heart  goes  out.  The  publishers  of 
the  present  day,  at  least  those  I  know,  ride  around  in 
limousine  cars  while  the  booksellers  walk  —  the  floor. 
When  Hogg  threatened  to  knock  the  brains  out  of 
a  bookseller,  Sir  Walter  Scott  cried,  "Knock  the 
brains  into  him,  my  dear  Hogg,  but  for  God's  sake 
don't  knock  any  out."  The  difficulties  from  which 
he  is  chiefly  suffering  are  two  :  first,  the  unfair  com- 
petition of  certain  department  stores,  and  second, 
that  we,  the  readers,  have  deserted  him.  A  rich,  in- 
telligent, and  extravagant  people,  we  know  nothing, 
and  seemingly  wish  to  know  nothing,  of  the  pleasure 
of  buying  and  owning  books.  As  I  see  it,  the  decay 
of  the  bookshop  set  in  years  ago  with  the  downfall  of 
the  lyceum,  the  debating  society,  and  the  lecture 
platform.  We  have  none  of  these  things  now,  and  if 
we  had  not  largely  given  up  reading  as  one  of  the 
consequences,  I  should  not  be  sorry ;  but  the  mental 
stimulation  that  comes  from  personal  contact  has 
been  lost,  and  seemingly  there  is  nothing  that  will 
take  its  place.  Of  course,  when  I  say  that  we  have 
none  of  these  things,  I  mean  in  proportion  to  our 
population  and  wealth. 

When  it  comes  to  book-buying,  we  seem  so  loath 


WHAT  ABOUT  THE  BOOKSHOP?  77 

to  take  a  chance.  We  pay  four  or  six  or  ten  dollars 
for  a  pair  of  tickets  for  a  "show," —  how  I  hate  the 
word !  —  sit  through  it  for  an  entire  evening,  and 
when  asked  what  we  thought  of  it,  answer  briefly, 
"Rotten,"  and  dismiss  the  matter  from  our  minds. 
Now  book-buying  is,  or  ought  to  be,  a  pleasure.  If 
one  comes  in  contact  with  a  fairly  well-informed  sales- 
man or  saleswoman,  it  may  be  a  delight.  And  there 
are  such.  To  speak  of  those  I  know,  if  you  care  for 
illustrated  or  extra-illustrated  books,  where  can  you 
find  a  more  interesting  character  than  George  Rigby 
in  Philadelphia  ?  And  there  is  Mabel  Zahn,  at 
Sessler's  —  "Dere  Mable,"  as  I  sometimes  call  her: 
many  a  time  she  has  shamed  me  with  her  knowledge. 
And  there  is  Leary's,  one  of  the  largest  and  best 
second-hand  bookshops  in  the  country ;  you  are  not 
importuned  to  buy,  you  may  browse  there  by  the 
hour.  We  in  Philadelphia  hold  its  proprietor  in  such 
esteem  that  we  made  him  mayor  of  our  city,  and 
finally  governor  of  our  state.  He  has  known  me  ever 
since  I  was  a  little  boy,  and  it  was  a  proud  day  for 
me  when  I  thought  I  could  safely  refer  to  him  as  my 
friend  Ned  Stuart. 

Leary's  is  one  of  the  few  bookshops  in  which  bar- 
gains may  still  be  found.  My  friend  Tinker  —  dear 
old  Tink  —  never  comes  to  Philadelphia  without 
spending  a  few  hours  at  Leary's  ;  and  only  yesterday 
James  Shields,  that  astute  bookman,  dropping  in 
upon  me  to  ask  a  question,  which,  naturally,  I  was 
unable  to  answer,  showed  me  a  ten-dollar  bill  he  had 
just  extracted  from  Lawler,  Rosenbach's  manager,  for 


78  WHAT  ABOUT  THE  BOOKSHOP? 

a  book  he  had  just  "picked  up"  at  Leary's  for  fifty 
cents.  These  things  can  still  be  done,  but  it  takes 
more  exact  knowledge  than  I  have  been  able  to  ac- 
quire. One  thing  yet  remains  to  be  told  :  the  price  at 
which  Lawler  sold  the  book.  Who  knows  ? 

In  an  effort  to  escape  the  blame  that  should  be  ours, 
we  sometimes  say  that  Mr.  Andrew  Carnegie,  who 
scattered  public  libraries  all  over  the  land  in  an  effort, 
relatively  successful,  to  die  poor,  is  responsible  for 
the  plight  in  which  the  booksellers  find  themselves; 
but  I  am  willing  to  acquit  the  libraries  of  all  blame. 
They  do  an  immense  amount  of  good.  I  never  go  to 
a  strange  city  without  visiting  its  library,  and  I  count 
many  librarians  among  my  friends ;  but  I  am,  never- 
theless, always  overwhelmed  in  the  presence  of  count- 
less thousands  of  books,  as  I  might  be  in  the  presence 
of  crowned  heads ;  indeed,  I  think  that,  idle  curiosity 
once  gratified,  crowned  heads  would  not  impress  me 
at  all. 

And  so  it  is  that,  not  being  a  scholar,  or  altogether 
indigent,  I  do  not  much  use  any  library  except  my 
own.  I  early  formed  the  habit  of  buying  books,  and, 
thank  God,  I  have  never  lost  it.  Authors  living  and 
dead  —  dead,  for  the  most  part  —  afford  me  my 
greatest  enjoyment,  and  it  is  my  pleasure  to  buy 
more  books  than  I  can  read.  Who  was  it  who  said, 
"I  hold  the  buying  of  more  books  than  one  can  per- 
adventure  read,  as  nothing  less  than  the  soul's  reach- 
ing towards  infinity;  which  is  the  only  thing  that 
raises  us  above  the  beasts  that  perish"?  Whoever 
it  was,  I  agree  with  him ;  and  the  same  idea  has  been 


WHAT  ABOUT  THE  BOOKSHOP?  79 

less  sententiously  expressed  by  Ralph  Bergengren 
in  that  charming  little  poem  in  "Jane,  Joseph  and 
John,"  the  loveliest  book  for  children  and  grown-ups 
since  R.  L.  S.  gave  us  his  "Child's  Garden  of  Verses." 

My  Pop  is  always  buying  books  : 
So  that  Mom  says  his  study  looks 
Just  like  an  old  bookstore. 
The  bookshelves  are  so  full  and  tall, 
They  hide  the  paper  on  the  wall, 

And  there  are  books  just  everywhere, 

On  table,  window-seat,  and  chair, 
And  books  right  on  the  floor. 

And  every  little  while  he  buys 

More  books,  and  brings  them  home  and  tries 

To  find  a  place  where  they  will  fit, 

And  has  an  awful  time  of  it. 

Once,  when  I  asked  him  why  he  got 
So  many  books,  he  said,  "Why  not?" 
I  Ve  puzzled  over  that  a  lot. 

Too  many  of  us,  who  are  liberal,  not  to  say  lavish, 
in  our  household  expenses,  seem  to  regard  the  pur- 
chase of  books  as  an  almost  not-to-be-permitted  ex- 
travagance. We  buy  piano-players  and  talking 
machines,  and  we  mortgage  our  houses  to  get  an 
automobile,  but  when  it  comes  to  a  book,  we  exhaust 
every  resource  before  parting  with  our  money.  If 
we  cannot  borrow  a  book  from  a  friend,  we  borrow  it 
from  a  library ;  if  there  is  anything  I  like  less  than 
lending  a  book,  it  is  borrowing  one,  and  I  know  no 
greater  bore  than  the  man  who  insists  on  lending  you 
a  book  which  you  do  not  intend  to  read.  Of  course, 


80 


WHAT  ABOUT  THE  BOOKSHOP? 


ABRAHAM    LINCOLN 

A  Play 

By  John   Drinkwater 


you  can  cure  him,  ultimately,  by  losing  the  volume ; 
but  the  process  takes  time. 

My  philosophy  of  life  is  very  simple ;  one  does  n't 
have  to  study  the  accursed  German  philosophers  — 

or  any  other — to  dis- 
cover that  the  way  to 
happiness  is  to  get  a 
day's  pleasure  every 
day, —  I  am  not  writ- 
ing as  a  preacher, — 
and  I  know  no  greater 
pleasure  than  taking 
home  a  bundle  of 
books  which  you  have 
deprived  yourself  of 
something,  to  buy. 

"I  never  buy  new 
books,"  a  man  once 
said  to  me,  looking  at 
a  pile  on  my  library 
table;  "I've  got 
to  economize  some- 
where, and  they  are  so  expensive." 

"And  yet,"  I  retorted,  "you enjoy  reading;  don't 
you  feel  under  any  obligation  to  the  authors  from 
whom  you  derive  so  much  pleasure  ?  Someone  has 
to  support  them.  I  confess  to  the  obligation." 

When  I  think  how  much  pleasure  I  get  from  read- 
ing, I  feel  it  my  duty  to  buy  as  many  current  books 
as  I  can.  I  "collect"  Meredith  and  Stevenson,  the 
purchase  of  whose  books  no  longer  benefits  them. 


AwoL  iCi 


London:    Sidgwick  &  Jackson,  Ltd. 
3  Adam  Street,  Adclphi.  MCMXVIII 


WHAT  ABOUT  THE  BOOKSHOP?  81 

Why  should  I  not  also  collect  George  Moore  or  Locke 
or  Conrad  or  Hergesheimer  ?  which,  by  the  way,  I  do. 
And  while  you  may  not  be  able  to  get  such  an  inscrip- 
tion in  your  copy  of  the  first  edition  of  Drinkwater's 
"Abraham  Lincoln"  as  I  have  in  mine,  you  should 
get  a  copy  of  the  book  before  it  is  too  late.  All  these 
men  are  engaged  in  carrying  on  the  glorious  tradition 
of  English  literature.  It  is  my  duty  to  give  them 
what  encouragement  I  can ;  to  pay  tribute  to  them. 
I  wish  I  were  not  singular  in  this. 

But  to  return  to  the  bookshop.  In  addition  to  hav- 
ing to  compete  with  the  many  forms  of  amusement 
unknown  fifty  years  ago, —  it  would  be  superfluous 
for  me  to  do  more  than  mention  the  latest  of  them, 
the  "movie,"  —  the  bookshop  elects  to  sell  a  "na- 
tionally advertised"  article  in  competition  with  the 
department  store.  The  publishers  allow  what  would 
be  a  fairly  liberal  margin  of  profit,  if  the  bookshops 
were  permitted  to  keep  it ;  but  the  department  stores 
cut  that  margin  to  the  quick.  For  reasons  that  are 
well  known,  it  is  profitable  for  them  to  do  so  :  with 
their  immense  "turnover"  and  their  relatively  small 
"overhead,"  they  can  afford  to  sell  certain  popular 
books  at  cut  prices,  for  the  reason  that  at  the  next 
counter  they  are  selling  chocolates,  marked  "WEEK- 
END SPECIAL,  70c.  Regular  Price  $1.00,"  which  do 
not  cost  over  forty  cents,  perhaps  less;  and  often 
they  do  get  a  dollar  for  these  boxes.  And  what  is 
true  of  chocolates  is  true  of  practically  everything 
they  sell,  except  books  and  a  few  other  specialties, 
which  they  use  as  "leaders." 


82  WHAT  ABOUT  THE  BOOKSHOP? 

Books  are  the  only  "nationally  advertised"  spe- 
cialties that  anyone  pretends  to  sell  in  shops  almost 
exclusively  devoted  to  them.  Time  was,  and  it 
was  a  sad  time,  when  the  monthly  magazines, 
"Atlantic,"  "Harper's,"  " Scribner's,"  and  the  rest, 
which  cost  $28  per  hundred,  wholesale,  were  re- 
tailed in  a  large  store  in  Philadelphia  for  25  cents 
each.  The  highest  court  to  which  the  question  can 
be  carried  has  ruled  that  the  seller  can  sell  at  any 
price  he  pleases,  provided  that  he  does  not  misstate 
the  facts,  as,  for  example,  that  his  immense  purchas- 
ing power  enables  him  to  undersell  his  competitors. 
In  some  few  cases  the  publishers  provide  "  specials," 
too :  they  give  extra  discounts  for  quantities ;  and 
there  are  always,  alas,  "remainders,"  sold  at  a  loss  by 
the  publishers  and  at  quite  a  tidy  little  profit  by  the 
retailer ;  but  in  general  the  facts  are  as  I  have  stated. 

It  must  be  admitted  that  the  department  store 
helps  the  publisher  by  selling  hundreds  of  thousands 
of  copies  of  books  like  "Dere  Mable"  and  the  "Four 
Horsemen."  "The  Young  Visiters,"  too,  whether  it 
be  by  Barrie  or  another,  sold  enormously ;  but  just 
so  large  as  is  the  sale  of  books  like  these,  just  so  small 
is  the  sale  of  books  of  enduring  merit.  Perhaps  I  am 
wrong,  but  I  fancy  that  men  prefer  to  buy  what  I 
may  call  good  books,  while  women  buy  novels  and  the 
lighter  forms  of  literature. 

Now,  fancy  a  man  going  into  a  certain  department 
store  that  I  have  in  mind,  and  asking  for  a  copy  of 
"Tom  Jones."  He  is  met  by  a  young  lady  in  a  low- 
cut  dress,  standing  in  high-heeled  slippers,  with  her 


WHAT  ABOUT  THE  BOOKSHOP?  83 

hair  gathered  up  in  large  puffs  which  entirely  conceal 
her  ears ;  her  nose  has  been  recently  powdered,  and 
she  looks  as  if  she  might  be  going  to  a  party.  "Tom 
Jones!"  she  says;  "is  it  a  boy's  book?  Juveniles, 
second  to  the  right."  "No,  it's  a  novel,"  you  say; 
and  she  replies,  "Fiction,  second  to  the  left." 

You  move  on,  avoiding  a  table  on  which  is  a  sign, 
"The  Newest  Books  Are  On  This  Table,"  and  you 
meet  another  young  lady,  also  ready  for  a  party, 
and  repeat  your  question.  "Is  it  a  new  book?"  she 
says.  "No,"  you  explain ;  and  she  conducts  you  to  a 
case  containing  hundreds  of  volumes  of  the  Every- 
man's Series  —  and  an  excellent  series  it  is.  But  the 
books  have  been  skillfully  shuffled,  and  what  you 
seek  is  hard  to  find.  While  you  and  she  are  looking, 
someone  "cuts  in"  and  inquires  for  a  copy  of  "Java 
Head,"  to  which  she  promptly  replies,  "One  sixty- 
nine,"  and  conducts  her  customer  to  a  large  pile, 
behind  which  she  disappears  and  is  seen,  by  you,  no 
more. 

You  keep  on  looking  until  someone  comes  to  your 
rescue,  and  asks  if  she  can  do  anything  for  you.  You 
say  "'Tom  Jones,'"  and  she,  being  an  intelligent 
person,  says,  "Fielding,"  and  conducts  you  to  the 
fine-book  department,  where  you  are  finally  shown 
a  set  of  Fielding  flashily  bound  in  what  appears  to  be 
morocco,  marked  $40.  You  demur  at  the  price  and 
explain  that  you  want  "Tom  Jones"  to  read,  not  a 
set  to  put  upon  your  shelves ;  finally,  thanking  the 
"saleslady"  for  her  trouble,  you  go  out  empty- 
handed,  having  wasted  half  an  hour. 


84  WHAT  ABOUT  THE  BOOKSHOP? 

If  this  paper  should  be  read  by  the  proprietor  of  a 
retail  store,  or  by  his  intelligent  clerk,  I  can  hear  him 
cry,  "You  are  quite  right,  but  we  know  all  this. 
Have  you  any  remedy?"  Certainly  I  have  nothing 
to  suggest  which  will  prove  a  royal  road  to  fortune ; 
but  I  do  suggest  the  selling  of  good  second-hand  books 
along  with  current  publications,  and  I  would  stress 
the  second-hand,  and  call  it  the  rare-book  depart- 
ment, for  the  profits  of  that  department  will  be  found 
to  be  surprisingly  large.  I  would  say  to  the  proprietor 
of  the  bookshop,  "Bring  some  imagination  to  bear 
on  your  business."  Imagination  is  as  necessary  to  a 
successful  tradesman  as  to  the  poet.  He  is,  indeed, 
only  a  day-laborer  without  it.  I  am  reminded  of  one 
of  the  clever  bits  in  Pinero's  play,  "Iris."  A  tall  dis- 
tinguished-looking man  enters ;  his  appearance  in- 
stantly challenges  attention,  and  the  ingenue  inquires 
who  he  is,  and  is  told,  "That  is  Mr.  Maldonadno,  the 
great  financier."  Then  comes  the  question,  "What  is 
a  financier?"  and  the  telling  reply,  "A  financier,  my 
dear,  is  a  pawnbroker  —  with  imagination." 

The  point  is  well  made.  WTiat  quality  was  it  in 
Charles  M.  Schwab  which,  while  most  of  the  great 
business  men  in  America  were  wringing  their  hands 
over  what  appeared  to  be  their  impending  ruin,  when 
the  war  broke  out,  sent  him  off  to  England,  to  re- 
turn quickly  with  hundreds  of  millions  of  dollars' 
worth  of  orders  in  his  pocket  ?  Imagination  !  It  was 
this  same  quality,  working  in  conjunction  with  the 
imagination  of  the  late  J.  P.  Morgan,  which  led  to  the 
formation  of  the  great  Steel  Corporation. 


WHAT  ABOUT  THE  BOOKSHOP?  85 

There  may  be  little  room  for  the  display  of  this 
supreme  qualification  in  the  retail  book-business, 
but  there  is  room  for  some.  Be  enterprising.  Get 
good  people  about  you.  Make  your  shop-windows 
and  your  shops  attractive.  The  fact  that  so  many 
young  men  and  women  enter  the  teaching  profession 
shows  that  there  are  still  some  people  willing  to  scrape 
along  on  comparatively  little  money  for  the  pleasure 
of  following  an  occupation  in  which  they  delight.  It 
is  as  true  to-day  as  it  was  in  Chaucer's  time  that  there 
is  a  class  of  men  who  "gladly  learn  and  gladly  teach,'* 
and  our  college  trustees  and  overseers  and  rich  alumni 
take  advantage  of  this,  and  expect  them  to  live  on 
wages  which  an  expert  chauffeur  would  regard  as 
insufficient.  Any  bookshop  worthy  of  survival  can 
offer  inducements  at  least  as  great  as  the  average 
school  or  college.  Under  pleasant  conditions  you  will 
meet  pleasant  people,  for  the  most  part,  whom  you 
can  teach  and  from  whom  you  may  learn  something. 
We  used  to  hear  much  of  the  elevation  of  the  stage ; 
apparently  that  has  been  given  over;  let  us  elevate 
the  bookshop.  It  can  be  done.  My  friend,  Chris- 
topher Morley, — 

.  .  .  Phoebus  !  what  a  name 
To  fill  the  speaking-trump  of  future  fame !  — 

in  his  delightful  "Parnassus  on  Wheels,"  shows  that 
there  may  be  plenty  of  "uplift"  and  a  world  of  ro- 
mance in  a  traveling  man  well  stocked  with  books. 
Indeed,  a  pleasant  holiday  could  be  planned  along 
the  lines  of  Roger  Mifflin's  novel  venture  in  book- 


86  WHAT  ABOUT  THE  BOOKSHOP? 

selling.  I  prophesy  for  this  book,  some  day,  such 
fame  as  is  now  enjoyed  by  Stevenson's  "Travels 
with  a  Donkey."  It  is,  in  fact,  just  such  a  book, 
although  admittedly  the  plump  white  horse,  Pegasus, 
lacks  somewhat  the  temperamental  charm  of  R.  L.  S.'s 
best-drawn  female  character,  Modestine. 

I  was  in  a  college  town  recently,  and  passing  a  shop, 
I  noticed  some  books  in  the  window  and  at  once 
entered,  as  is  my  habit,  to  look  around.  But  I 
stayed  only  a  moment,  for  in  the  rear  of  the  shop 
I  saw  a  large  sign  reading,  "Laundry  Received  before 
9  A.M.  Returned  the  Same  Day"  —  enterprise,  with- 
out a  doubt,  but  misdirected.  If  the  bookshop  is  to 
survive,  it  must  be  made  more  attractive.  The  buy- 
ing of  books  must  be  made  a  pleasure,  just  as  the 
reading  of  them  is ;  so  that  an  intellectual  man  or 
woman  with  a  leisure  hour  may  spend  it  pleasantly 
and  profitably  increasing  his  or  her  store. 

Every  college  town  should  support  a  bookshop.  It 
need  not  necessarily  be  so  splendid  an  undertaking 
as  the  Brick  Row  Print  and  Book  Shop  at  New 
Haven,  over  which  Byrne  Hackett  presides  with  such 
distinction,  or  even  the  Dunster  House  Book-Shop 
of  Mr.  Firuski  of  Cambridge.  And  to  make  these 
ventures  the  successes  they  deserve  to  be,  faculty 
and  students  and  the  public  alike  should  be  loyal 
customers ;  but  it  should  be  remembered  that  these 
shops  need  not,  and  do  not,  depend  entirely  upon 
local  trade.  Inexpensive  little  catalogues  can  be 
issued  and  sent  to  customers  half-way  round  the 
world. 


CHRISTOPHER  MORLEY 

Whose  graceful  verses  ana  charming  essays  are  known  to  aU  who  love  books ;  for  whose  first  volume, 

"  Parnassus  on  Wheels,"  I  have  prophesied  such  fame  as  is  now  enjoyed  by  R.  L  S.'s 

"  Travels  with  a  Donkey  " 


WHAT  ABOUT  THE  BOOKSHOP?  87 

Speaking  of  catalogues,  I  have  just  received  one 
from  a  shop  I  visited  when  I  was  last  in  London, 
called  "  The  Serendipity  Shop."  It  is  located  in  a 
little  slum  known  as  Shepherd's  Market,  right  in  the 
heart  of  Mayfair.  It  may  be  that  my  readers  will 
be  curious  to  know  how  it  gets  its  name.  "Seren- 
dipity" was  coined  by  Horace  Walpole  from  an  old 
name  for  Ceylon  —  Serendip.  He  made  it,  as  he 
writes  his  friend  Mann,  out  of  an  old  fairy  tale  where- 
in the  heroes  "were  always  making  discoveries,  by 
accidents  and  sagacity,  of  things  they  were  not  in 
quest  of."  Its  name,  therefore,  suggests  that,  al- 
though you  may  not  find  in  the  Serendipity  Shop 
what  you  came  for,  you  will  find  something  that  you 
want,  although  you  did  not  know  it  when  you  came 
in.  Its  proprietor,  Mr.  Everard  Meynell,  is  the  son 
of  Alice  Meynell,  who,  with  her  husband,  did  so  much 
to  relieve  the  sufferings  of  that  fine  poet,  Francis 
Thompson,  and  who  is  herself  a  poet  and  essayist  of 
distinction.  Is  not  every  bookshop  in  fact,  if  not  in 
name,  a  Serendipity  Shop  ? 

I  have  no  patience  with  people  who  affect  to  be 
fond  of  reading,  and  who  seem  to  glory  in  their  ig- 
norance of  editions.  "All  I  am  interested  in,"  they 
say,  "  is  the  type :  so  long  as  the  type  is  readable,  I 
care  for  nothing  else."  This  is  a  rather  common 
form  of  cant.  Everything  about  a  book  should 
be  as  sound  and  honest  and  good ;  but  it  need  not 
be  expensive. 

I  have  always  resented  William  Morris's  attitude 
toward  books.  Constantly  preaching  on  art  and 


88  WHAT  ABOUT  THE  BOOKSHOP? 

beauty  for  the  people,  he  set  about  producing  books 
which  are  as  expensive  as  they  are  beautiful,  which 
only  rich  men  can  buy,  and  which  not  one  man  in 
a  hundred  owning  them  reads.  Whereas  my  friend 
Mr.  Mosher  of  Portland,  Maine, —  I  call  him  friend 
because  we  have  tastes  in  common ;  I  have,  in  point 
of  fact,  never  met  him  or  done  more  than  exchange  a 
check  for  a  book  with  him, —  has  produced,  not  a 
few,  but  hundreds  of  books  which  are  as  nearly  fault- 
less as  books  can  be,  at  prices  which  are  positively 
cheap.  As  is  well  known,  Mr.  Mosher  relies  very 
little  upon  the  bookshops  for  the  marketing  of  his 
product,  but  sells  practically  his  entire  output  to 
individual  buyers,  by  means  of  catalogues  which  are 
works  of  art  in  themselves.  We  may  not  fully  real- 
ize it,  but  when  Mr.  Mosher  passes  away,  booklovers 
of  another  generation  will  marvel  at  the  certitude 
of  his  taste,  editorial  and  other ;  for  he  comes  as  near 
to  being  the  ideal  manufacturer  as  any  man  who  ever 
lived. 

I  would  not  for  a  moment  contend  that  a  man  in  the 
retail  book-business  will  in  a  short  time  make  a  for- 
tune. We  are  not  a  nation  of  readers,  but  a  young 
and  uncultured  people.  It  is  not  to  be  forgotten, 
however,  that  we  graduate  every  year  an  immense 
number  of  men  and  women  from  our  colleges.  Poten- 
tially, these  are,  or  ought  to  be,  readers ;  they  will 
be  readers,  if  publishers  and  booksellers  do  their 
duty. 

If  a  library  is  the  best  university,  as  we  have  been 
told  it  is,  the  bookseller  has  his  cue.  Let  him  make 


WHAT  ABOUT  THE  BOOKSHOP?  89 

his  shop  attractive  —  a  centre  from  which  culture 
may  be  radiated.  Customers  have  to  be  educated. 
When  a  new  line  of  goods,  of  whatever  kind,  is  being 
introduced,  "missionary  work,"  as  we  manufacturers 
call  it,  has  to  be  done. 

New  York  City  has  several  fine  bookshops  :  for  ex- 
ample, Brentano's,  one  of  the  great  bookshops  of  the 
world ;  but  Brentano's  has  its  fine-book  department, 
as  have  Scribner's  and  Button's  and  Putnam's ;  and 
these  so-called  fine-book  departments  are  doing  ex- 
pensively, as  befits  New  York,  what  I  would  have 
every  bookshop  do  according  to  its  locale,  as  McClurg 
is  doing  in  Chicago. 

The  advantages  that  would  accrue  are  several. 
More  readers  would  be  made.  The  book-business  of 
the  department  stores  would  not  be  interfered  with 
in  the  least  —  they  would  remain,  as  now,  the  best 
customers  for  certain  classes  of  publishers,  who  might 
expect  to  have  some  day,  in  addition,  a  more  thriving 
class  of  booksellers  than  now.  And  better  books 
would  be  published  —  better,  that  is,  in  print,  paper, 
and  binding. 

In  the  fine-book  department,  which  I  am  urging 
every  bookseller  to  start  without  delay,  I  would  keep 
out  trash ;  I  would  admit  only  good  books  —  good, 
I  mean,  in  every  sense  of  the  word  except  moral. 
The  department  should  be  in  charge  of  the  most  in- 
telligent man  in  the  shop,  if  there  be  an  intelligent 
man ;  and  I  would  get  one  if  I  had  not  one,  and  in 
these  days  of  profit-sharing,  I  would  give  him  an 
interest  in  the  profit  of  that  department.  I  would 


90  WHAT  ABOUT  THE  BOOKSHOP? 

buy,  too,  good  books  from  the  second-hand  English 
booksellers,  who  sell  very  cheaply;  and  above  all 
things  I  would  not  forget  the  wisdom  stored  up  in  the 
distorted  proverb, — 

Early  to  bed  and  early  to  rise, 
Work  like  h ,  and  advertise. 


V 

A  SLOGAN  FOR  BOOKSELLERS 

I  DON'T  think  that  I  was  a  very  bad  little  boy,  as 
boys  go,  but  the  fact  is  that  I  ran  away  from  school 
—  a  boarding-school  —  and  never  went  back.  I  did, 
however,  apply  for  a  job  in  a  bookstore,  got  the 
promise  of  the  next  vacancy,  and  sat  down  and  waited. 
But  not  for  long.  Scanning  the  advertisements  in 
the  Philadelphia  "Ledger,"  I  discovered  that  a  man 
was  looking  for  me,  and  promptly  decided  that  it  was 
my  duty  to  meet  him  half-way.  "A  bright,  active 
boy  to  address  envelopes.  $3.00.  Reference,"  was 
the  way  the  advertisement  read. 

Thus  it  was  that  I  first  met  Cyrus  H.  K.  Curtis; 
not  head  on,  not  at  right  angles,  but  obliquely :  we 
were  both  going  in  the  same  direction;  he  had  not 
yet  struck  his  gait,  and  for  several  months  he  did  not 
appear  to  be  leading  me  much ;  but  gradually  he  in- 
creased the  very  considerable  distance  there  was  be- 
tween us,  and  finally  he  passed  out  of  sight.  I  did 
not  see  him  again  until  he  had  become  a  national 
figure.  He  became  this  by  advertising.  Many  men 
have  made  larger  fortunes  than  he ;  with  them  adver- 
tising has  been  incidental,  like  love  in  a  man's  life ; 
but  with  Mr.  Curtis  it  has  been  his  whole  existence ; 
and  the  largest  and  finest  publishing  building  in  the 
world  is  a  monument  to  his  skill  as  an  advertiser. 


92  A  SLOGAN  FOR  BOOKSELLERS 

There  are  people  who  affect  to  believe  that  adver- 
tising is  economic  waste;  Mr.  Curtis  is  not  one  of 
them.  He  has  always  taken  his  own  medicine;  he 
may  believe  in  the  Trinity ;  he  may,  for  aught  I  know, 
repeat  the  Athanasian  Creed  on  occasions;  but  I 
know,  the  whole  world  knows,  that  he  is  a  believer 
in  advertising;  and  he  should  be,  for  his  success  is 
due  largely  —  not  entirely,  but  largely  —  to  it. 

The  Curtis  Publishing  Company,  then,  is  admit- 
tedly the  result  of  an  advertising  campaign,  begun  a 
long  time  ago,  and  carried  on  consistently  day  after 
day,  month  after  month,  year  after  year,  with  special 
reference  to  the  product  it  has  to  sell,  which  is  ad- 
vertising. Incidentally  it  delivers  something  else, — 
several  other  things,  to  be  exact, —  and  it  delivers 
these  at  a  cost  to  the  "consumer"  so  trifling  in  pro- 
portion to  the  cost  of  production,  that  it  almost 
amounts  to  a  gift.  I  think  I  may  say  without  fear  of 
contradiction  that  the  "Saturday  Evening  Post"  is 
the  cheapest  piece  of  merchandise  in  the  world.  And 
if  that  be  the  case,  what  becomes  of  the  theory  of  the 
economic  waste  of  advertising  ? 

But  it  is  not  the  object  of  this  paper  to  sing  a  hymn 
of  praise,  either  to  Mr.  Curtis,  or  to  his  company,  or 
to  his  product.  I  am  interested  chiefly  in  suggesting, 
if  I  may  be  permitted  to  do  so,  a  campaign  of  ad- 
vertising for  publishers  of  another  kind,  namely, 
publishers  of  books.  Books  interest  me  enormously ; 
they  always  have.  They  are  the  best  of  friends, — 
grave  or  gay  as  your  humor  is, —  and  you  can  shut 
them  up  when  you  want  to.  Most  people  don't  care 


A  SLOGAN  FOR  BOOKSELLERS  93 

for  them  much ;  they  think  they  do,  but  they  don't ; 
that  is  to  say,  they  care  for  so  many  other  things 
more  that,  when  it  comes  to  buying  them,  they  have 
no  money  left.  Now,  next  to  a  modicum  of  food  and 
a  patch  of  clothes,  I  care  more  for  books  than  for 
anything  else. 

I  should  like  to  digress.  I  have  reached  the  time 
of  life  when  Christmas  means  giving  much  and  re- 
ceiving little.  I  make  no  complaint,  I  only  state  the 
fact.  The  table  on  which  my  presents  are  placed  is 
a  very  small  one.  The  last  present  I  received  was 
from  my  wife;  it  was  a  watch.  I  had  a  watch  and 
did  not  need  another ;  but  my  wife  thought  I  ought 
to  have  a  fine  watch  and  she  gave  me  one ;  and  it  was, 
as  I  remember,  about  ten  days  after  Christmas  that, 
in  handing  me  a  lot  of  household  bills,  she  handed  me 
the  bill  for  the  watch,  with  the  remark,  "And  you 
might  as  well  pay  this,  too ;  I  thought  I  could,  but  it 
would  cramp  me  and  you  '11  never  know  the  differ- 
ence." So  with  a  sigh  I  bent  my  back  to  the  burden, 
and  it  was  just  as  she  had  said. 

A  week  later,  going  on  a  business  trip  somewhere, 
I  was  sitting  in  a  smoking-car,  reading,  when  a  man 
whom  I  knew  slightly  asked  me  if  I  would  not  like 
to  sit  into  a  friendly  game  of  poker.  I  made  known 
to  him  briefly  that  I  did  n't  know  one  card  from  an- 
other. Then,  he  said,  "Let  us  talk,"  which  meant, 
let  him  talk ;  and  talk  he  did,  about  everything  and 
nothing,  until  finally  he  asked  me  if  I  had  received 
any  Christmas  presents.  This  gave  me  a  chance  to 
boast  of  my  wife's  generosity  and  to  show  my  new 


94  A  SLOGAN  FOR  BOOKSELLERS 

watch,  with  the  result  that  my  friend  countered  by 
saying  that  his  wife  had  given  him  a  fine  antique 
bookcase. 

"How  very  nice,"  I  said.  "Are  you  fond  of 
books  ?  Have  you  many  ?  " 

"No,  not  many,"  he  replied ;  "but  it  is  n't  exactly  a 
bookcase ;  it 's  more  like  a  large  upright  writing-desk. 
The  top  is  a  closet,  with  glass  doors  with  a  red-silk 
lining ;  makes  a  nice  place  to  keep  whiskey  and  cigars 
and  things  under  lock  and  key."  (This  was  before 
we  had  discovered  the  necessity  of  keeping  our  whis- 
key in  a  burglar-proof  vault.)  "Then  there's  a  flap 
that  lets  down  on  which  you  can  write;  and  under- 
neath is  a  place  for  books.  And  do  you  know,"  he 
continued,  "/  know  enough  books  already  I'd  like  to 
have,  to  fill  both  shelves" 

I  shuddered,  and  the  better  to  conceal  my  anguish 
I  asked  him  if  he  enjoyed  reading. 

"Very  much,"  he  said;  "I  don't  know  anything  I 
like  better  than  to  go  into  my  den  on  Sunday  morning 
after  breakfast,  and  sit  and  read  my  newspaper  un- 
disturbed." 

Think  of  a  man  staring  vacantly  at  a  Sunday 
paper,  under  the  delusion  that  he  is  reading ! 

Now  the  fact  is  that  many  people,  most  people, 
have  forgotten  how  to  read,  if  they  ever  knew ;  and 
they  have  to  be  taught,  and  they  can  be  taught,  not 
only  to  read,  but  to  buy  books,  by  advertising.  The 
use  of  tooth-powder  has  been  enormously  stimulated 
by  advertising,  and  I  am  certain  that  a  demand  for 


A  SLOGAN  FOR  BOOKSELLERS  95 

books  can  be  created  in  the  same  way,  but  it  must  be 
done  wisely,  systematically,  and  continuously.  We 
are  familiar  with  the  proverb  that  "It  is  the  first  step 
that  counts."  Well,  it  is  not  so  with  advertising: 
in  advertising,  it  is  the  last ;  the  effect  of  advertising 
is  cumulative.  It  is  the  last  dollar  spent  that  brings 
results.  The  first  time  one  sees  an  advertisement,  un- 
less it  is  very  striking,  it  has  no  pulling  power ;  only 
after  one  has  seen  it  repeatedly,  does  it  begin  to  work. 

The  best  advertising  skill  in  the  world  was  con- 
centrated a  year  or  two  ago  on  Liberty  Bonds.  Most 
people  did  not  know  what  a  bond  was ;  they  had  to  be 
taught ;  and  it  is  a  thousand  pities  that,  after  people 
had  been  told  that  they  were  the  finest  investment  in 
the  world,  they  were  allowed  to  decline  so  in  price. 
We  were  told  to  "Buy  and  Borrow,"  and  to  "Buy  till 
it  hurts."  Such  is  the  effect  of  a  forceful  slogan  a 
thousand  times  repeated,  that  we  finally  do  as  we  are 
told.  We  bought  and  borrowed  and  got  hurt,  badly ; 
I  speak  from  experience. 

Millions  of  people  are  seduced  by  the  power  of  ad- 
vertising to  buy  automobiles  which  they  have  no 
right  to  buy,  because  they  are  skillfully  advertised 
and  look  so  smart  and  so  free  from  upkeep  —  in  ad- 
vertisements. 

Advertising  as  an  art  or  a  science  is  essentially 
modern,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson, 
in  one  of  his  now  little-read  Idlers,  written  in  1759, 
refers  to  it  as  a  "trade  now  so  near  to  perfection  that 
it  is  not  easy  to  propose  any  improvement" ;  and  he 
continues  by  saying,  referring  to  the  filling  up  of  news- 


96  A  SLOGAN  FOR  BOOKSELLERS 

papers  with  advertisements:  "The  man  who  first 
took  advantage  of  the  general  curiosity  that  was  ex- 
cited by  a  siege  or  battle,  to  betray  the  readers  of 
news  into  the  knowledge  of  the  shop  where  the  best 
puffs  and  powder  were  to  be  sold,  was  undoubtedly  a 
man  of  great  sagacity."  It  is  our  silly  habit  to  think 
of  Dr.  Johnson,  when  we  think  of  him  at  all,  as  pon- 
derous and  old-fashioned;  ponderous  he  sometimes 
was,  but  he  is  quite  up-to-date  in  calling  advertisers 
"sagacious.'* 

As  I  cannot  suppose  that  my  reader  has  at  hand  a 
newspaper  containing  such  advertisements  as  called 
forth  Dr.  Johnson's  encomiums,  let  me  give  a  few 
examples  taken  almost  at  random  from  the  "Daily 
Advertiser." 

Mr.  Pinchbeck,  Senior,  Clock  and  Watchmaker  from 
Tunbridge  Wells,  having  through  a  long  series  of  repeated 
Injuries  from  his  neighboring  brother,  Mr.  Edward  Pinch- 
beck, been  obliged  to  alter  his  Sign,  takes  this  method  of 
informing  the  Public,  that  his,  the  said  Pinchbeck  senior's 
Sign  is  now  only  his  late  Father's  Head,  exactly  opposite 
the  Sun  Tavern  in  Fleet  Street. 

Trouble  was  brewing,  evidently,  in  the  Pinchbeck 
family.  "Thomas  Madge,  Watchmaker,"  was  more 
fortunate :  he  announced  that  he  was 

Apprentice  to  the  late  Mr.  Graham,  and  carries  on  the 
business  in  the  same  manner  Mr.  Graham  did,  at  the  Sign 
of  the  Dial  opposite  the  Bolt  and  Tun  in  Fleet  Street. 

Dr.  Johnson's  Dictionary  was  proclaimed  to  the 
world  in  this  fashion,  the  announcement  occupying  a 
space  of  a  little  more  than  an  inch,  single  column :  — 


DR.  JOHNSON,  BY  SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS 

From  n  photograph  marie  by  W.  Vivian  Chappel,  from  the  original  portrait,  for  tins  publication. 


A  SLOGAN  FOR  BOOKSELLERS 


97 


ACCOUNT 


OF    THE    LATE 


Dr.  GOLDSMITH'S  ILLNESS; 


EXHIBITION 


Dr.   JAMES'S   POWDERS? 


TOOITKH    WIT* 


REM  A»ICS  OB  the  USE  tod  ABUSE  of  POWEB  f  UL  MzDiciNSl 
in  the  Beginning  of  FEVERS,  and  other  ACUTE  DIIZAUS. 


By  WILLIAM    HAWES,   AI-OTHICARY. 


This  day  is  published  in  Two  Volumes  Folio  Mr.  S. 
Johnson's  Dictionary  of  the  English  language.  In  which 
the  words  are  deduced  from  their  originals,  and  illustrated 
in  their  different  significations  by  Examples  from  the  Best 
Writers.  To  which  are 
prefixed  aHistory  of  the 
Language  and  an  Eng- 
lish Grammar.  Printed 
for  A.  Millar. 

And  then  follows  the 
long  list  of  booksell- 
ers financially  inter- 
ested in  the  venture. 
As  might  be  ex- 
pected, "cures"  for 
the  diseases  —  real 
or  imaginary — which 
plagued  our  forefa- 
thers occupied  much 
space  in  the  public 
prints,  and  of  all  the 
nostrums  compound- 
ed by  the  apotheca- 
ries,—  and  their  name  is  legion, —  nothing  was  more 
advertised  and  consumed  in  greater  quantities  than 
Dr.  James's  Fever  Powders.  (Incidentally  they  killed 
Oliver  Goldsmith,  and  Horace  Walpole  said  he  would 
take  them  if  the  house  was  on  fire.)  They  were 
advertised  as  a  "genuine  medicine,"  and  genuine 
medicines  were  prescribed  by  the  pound  or  quart,  as 
the  apothecaries  were  not  to  be  outdone  in  rigor  by 
the  surgeons,  who  "let  blood"  by  the  bucket  at  the 


The  THIRD    EDITIOKi 

WITH 

CORRECTIONS,    ud    u    APPENDIX. 


LONDON 

Printed  for  W.   BKOWH,   and  H.  GAIDNII,    in  the  Strind, 
J.    HINTOH,    T.    EVANS,    and    J.   Biw,    P»tei nofter-Kaw » 
S.  Hoorm,  Ludgwe-Hill  i  J.  WILLIAMS.  FJcct-fticet>  tad 
W.  DATIHHILL.  oppofice  the  Roytl-Ezchuge. 
MDCCLXXIV. 

[  Price  One  Shilling.  ] 


98  A  SLOGAN  FOR  BOOKSELLERS 

slightest  provocation.  Prior  to  the  introduction  of 
Dover's  Powders  and  James's  Powders,  a  man  in  a  high 
fever,  if  highly  placed,  might  be  considered  to  be  worth 
as  much  as  sixty  pounds  to  his  apothecary.  Is  it  any 
wonder,  then,  that  well-advertised  and  fairly  effica- 
cious drugs,  to  be  had  for  a  few  shillings,  made  fortunes 
for  their  proprietors  ?  All  the  more,  since  they  were  in 
competition  with  such  household  remedies  as  "  Syrup 
of  Snails,"  or  a  "broth"  made  of  spiders  ground  fine 
with  opium  in  a  mortar,  and  reduced  to  a  liquid  by 
the  addition  of  hot  wine,  to  be  drunk  in  bed,  "  covered 
up  warm  and  sweating."  What  constitutions  we 
must  have  inherited  from  our  ancestors,  for  only  the 
robust  could  have  survived. 

Such  changes  as  have  taken  place  in  English  news- 
paper advertising  came  slowly,  and  these  have  not 
been  to  the  advantage  of  the  appearance  of  the  news- 
paper. A  generation  ago  display  advertising  was 
almost  unknown.  Then,  if  a  man  wanted  to  occupy 
the  space  of  a  column,  say,  he  made  a  brief  statement 
and  repeated  it  several,  perhaps  as  many  as  a  dozen, 
times.  There  was,  and  for  aught  I  know,  still  may 
be,  a  famous  remedy,  Beecham's  Pills,  with  which 
was  coupled  what  we  should  to-day  call  a  slogan, 
"Worth  a  guinea  a  box."  No  matter  where  one 
turned,  one  read,  "Beecham's  Pills,  Worth  a  guinea 
a  box"  ;  or  one  could,  if  one  preferred,  read  it,  "Worth 
a  guinea  a  box,  Beecham's  Pills."  A  fortune  was 
spent,  and  a  larger  fortune  made,  as  one  can  still 
make  a  fortune  by  advertising,  if  the  article  adver- 
tised has  merit,  as  I  presume  Beecham's  Pills  had. 


A  SLOGAN  FOR  BOOKSELLERS  99 

But  steady ;  Mr.  Beecham  may  by  now  be  a  knight  or 
a  peer  or  something.  Yes,  I  have  just  looked  him  up 
in  "Who's  Who."  He  is  now  "Sir  Joseph  Beecham, 
Kt.  cr.  1911 ;  J.  P.,  manufacturer  and  philanthropist," 
etc.,  etc.  Oh,  yes,  "It  pays  to  advertise." 

Of  that  there  is  no  manner  of  doubt  — 
No  possible,  probable  shadow  of  doubt  — 
No  possible  doubt  whatever, — 

as  the  song  in  "The  Gondoliers"  goes. 

To-day  we  are  more  sophisticated,  and  what  our 
advertising  may  become  was  very  cleverly  foretold 
in  a  recent  number  of  the  "New  Republic,"  in  an 
article  in  which  it  was  suggested  that  a  generation 
hence  every  reference  in  reading  matter  will  be  made 
to  call  attention  to  some  article  advertised.  If,  for 
example,  a  story  of  an  elopement  is  to  be  told,  the 
hero,  glancing  at  his  watch  (opposite  the  Elgin  Watch 
advertisement),  will  say  that  it  is  time  to  start.  "But 
am  I  not  to  take  my  trunk?"  (opposite  the  Inde- 
structo  Trunk  advertisement)  cries  Betty.  "No," 
says  Jack,  "we  can  buy  what  we  need  in  New  York" 
(Biltmore  Hotel) ;  "all  we  need  is  money"  (American 
Express  Cheques),  "and  a  few  necessities"  (William's 
Shaving  Stick,  Pepsodent,  and  the  rest).  He  glances 
at  his  automobile  (Mercer),  sees  that  the  tires  (United 
States)  are  in  condition  for  a  fast  run,  and  helping 
Betty  in,  lights  a  cigarette  (Camels),  and  in  another 
moment  the  car  has  passed  out  of  sight  ("for  fine 
roads  use  Tarvia"). 

It  is,  I  think,  rather  curious  that  it  is  only  recently 
that  the  National  Association  of  Booksellers  has  con- 


100  A  SLOGAN  FOR  BOOKSELLERS 

sidered  advertising  in  a  manner  designed  to  increase 
the  demand,  not  for  any  one  special  book,  but  for 
books  in  general ;  not  for  the  product  of  any  one  pub- 
lisher on  sale  at  any  particular  shop,  but  advertising 
the  object  of  which  is  to  stimulate  the  habit  of  buying 
books  —  new  books,  old  books,  in  a  word,  "  anything 
that's  a  book."  Of  course  it  can  be  done.  It  will 
take  time  and  money,  but  it  is  well  worth  doing. 

Now  for  the  sake  of  the  discussion  let  me  suggest  a 
slogan  —  Buy  a  Book  a  Week.  There  are  millions  to 
whom  this  slogan  will  make  no  appeal,  but  there  are 
millions  who  will  be  attracted  by  it  —  or  a  better  one ; 
millions  who  are  not  accustomed  to  buy  books,  and 
who  will  at  first  regard  the  slogan  with  amazement 
and  as  not  intended  for  them.  The  power  of  itera- 
tion and  reiteration  is  not  yet  fully  understood :  it  is 
worthy  of,  and  doubtless  has  received,  the  attention 
of  the  psychologist.  Gradually  it  will  be  made  to 
appear  that  it  is  as  disgraceful  not  to  buy  a  book  a 
week  as  it  is  to  wear  a  celluloid  collar  or  to  use  a  gold 
toothpick.  At  present  it  occurs  to  relatively  few 
people  to  buy  books:  tell  them  to,  keep  on  telling 
them  to;  and  after  a  while  they  will.  And  when  a 
man  is  by  way  of  forming  the  habit  of  buying  books 
and  reading  them,  you  may  tell  him  why  he  is  doing 
so,  and  what  he  should  buy,  and  whence.1 

Why  should  we  read?  Book-lovers  have  spent 
much  time  inventing  finely  flowing  sentences  in  reply 

1  Inspired,  perhaps,  by  the  first  appearance  of  this  chapter,  a  well- 
known  Boston  bookseller  offered  a  prize  for  the  best  poem  on  its 
theme.  Among  the  verses  submitted  in  the  competition  were  these:  — 


101 

to  this  question,  which  is  more  frequently  answered 
than  asked.  Augustine  Birrell,  that  fine  old  book- 
man, in  a  paragraph  which  betrays  no  effort  at  smart- 
ness, says  in  the  preface  to  his  edition  of  BoswelPs 
"Life  of  Johnson":  "Literature  is  meant  to  give 
pleasure,  to  excite  interest,  to  banish  solitude,  to 
make  the  fireside  more  attractive  than  the  tavern,  to 
give  joy  to  those  who  are  still  capable  of  joy,  and  — 
why  should  we  not  admit  it  ?  —  to  drug  sorrow,  and 
divert  thought."  There  is  in  this  something  of  sad- 
ness —  old  age  speaks,  rather  than  youth ;  but  it  is  a 
very  fine  summary  of  the  purpose  of  literature. 

Before  me  on  my  writing-table  is  a  dainty,  dumpy 
volume,  bound  in  white  cloth,  and  very  much  soiled, 
having  for  title,  "The  Book-Lover's  Enchiridion." 

A  BOOK  A  WEEK 

A  book  a  week !  I  heave  a  sigh ; 
That  Slogan's  peremptory  cry 
I  will  not  hear,  I  will  not  heed. 
How  can  They  say  that  I  should  need 
The  book  They  bid  me  weekly  buy  ? 

But  Slogans  change,  as  days  go  by ; 
My  Psyche  listens,  fluttering  shy, 
To  newer  message  —  "Come  and  Read 
A  book  a  week." 

To  read !  to  read !  O  wings  that  fly 
O'er  sun-kissed  lands,  through  clouded  sky, 
That  bear  us  on  where  Great  ones  lead ! 
I  too  must  follow,  so  I  plead 
For  magic  wings.  I  '11  read  (or  try) 
A  book  a  week ! 


102  A  SLOGAN  FOR  BOOKSELLERS 

It  was  given  by  its  compiler,  Alexander  Ireland,  to 
Mrs.  James  T.  Fields,  "with  sincere  and  heartfelt 
regards"  ;  and  as  it  contains  all  of  the  best  things  ever 
said  in  praise  of  books  and  reading,  I  have,  since  I 
had  this  subject  in  mind,  read  it  through  from  cover 
to  cover,  hoping  that  I  might  get  from  it  a  note  of  in- 
spiration for  this  paper ;  but  I  have  not  done  so.  No, 
the  "Enchiridion"  is  designed  for  the  use  and  delec- 
tation of  those  who  already  understand  the  love  of 
books.  Many  a  time  I  have  taken  it  up  for  ten  or 
twenty  minutes  when  I  should  have  been  in  bed ;  but 
the  excerpts  of  which  it  is  composed  are  too  exquisite, 
too  dainty,  too  imaginative,  for  my  present  purpose, 
which  is  to  suggest  that  a  man  in  the  street  may  be 
shamed  at  the  thought  that  he  has  no  books.  Of 
what  use  is  it  to  tell  such  a  one,  as  Emerson  does, 
"Consider  what  you  have  in  the  smallest  chosen 
library.  A  company  of  the  wisest  and  wittiest  men 
that  could  be  picked  out  of  all  countries  in  a  thousand 
years."  I,  sitting  in  my  library,  am  flattered  that 
such  a  statement  appeals  to  me :  it  suggests  that  I 
feel  at  home  in  such  company ;  but  tell  the  average 
man  in  a  hurry  that,  if  he  will  pause  for  a  moment, 
he  may  meet  "  the  wisest  and  wittiest,"  and  he  will 
reply,  "I  should  worry,"  or  some  such  inanity,  and 
pass  on. 

No!  a  man  must  be  told  flatly,  peremptorily,  to 
Buy  a  Book  a  Week,  and  —  not  at  first,  but  after  a 
time  —  he  will  do  it.  Clubs  might  be  formed  and 
buttons  worn ;  and  long  before  this  point  is  reached, 
indeed  at  the  very  outset,  the  whole  subject  should 


A  SLOGAN  FOR  BOOKSELLERS  103 

be  turned  over  to  the  best  expert  advertising  opin- 
ion, that  the  matter  may  be  carefully  studied.  This 
will  take  time  and  money,  but  the  thing  need  not  be 
done  in  a  hurry;  the  book-trade  has  survived  for 
centuries  without  such  stimulation  as  I  am  suggest- 
ing. A  year  may  well  be  spent  in  preparing  such  a 
campaign ;  as  for  the  money,  there  should  be  no  diffi- 
culty :  a  small  fraction  of  one  per  cent  of  the  total 
book-sales  of  the  country  should  be  levied  on  every 
bookseller,  wholesale  as  well  as  retail  —  from  such 
an  important  publisher  as  Macmillan  in  New  York 
to  such  a  high  eccentric  retailer  as  George  Rigby  in 
Philadelphia.  This  tax  should  produce  such  a  sum 
as  would  secure  the  best  advertising  talent  in  the 
country. 

"Do  it  electrically"  has  long  been  a  slogan  in  the 
game  with  which  I  am  in  some  measure  familiar. 
Do  what  ?  Anything :  melt  copper  or  freeze  cream ; 
drive  a  ship  or  a  needle.  "Buy  a  Book  a  Week" 
What  book?  Any  book, —  "The  Four  Horsemen" 
or  "The  Education  of  Henry  Adams,"  —  and  sooner 
or  later  we  shall  have  a  book-buying  public,  not 
merely  a  group  of  scattered  individuals,  to  whom  "a 
home  without  books  is  like  a  room  without  windows." 

The  study  of  advertising  is  the  study  of  national 

1  Some  time  after  this  "slogan"  had  been  given  national  publicity,  I 
received  a  letter  from  a  friend,  reading  as  follows  :  "That  wretched 
slogan  of  yours  is  rapidly  working  my  ruin.  Last  week  I  bought  a  first 
Shakespeare's  Poems  for  forty-five  hundred  dollars  ;  this  week  I  bought 
a  first  Paradise  Lost  for  three  thousand  dollars;  next  week  I  shall 
buy  a  presentation  Hamlet.  God  knows  how  much  I  shall  have  to 
pay  for  it." 


104  A  SLOGAN  FOR  BOOKSELLERS 

temperaments.  Advertising  is  a  form  of  boasting, 
and  we  Americans  are  the  greatest  advertisers  in  the 
world :  the  French  know  little  or  nothing  of  it,  and 
the  English  relatively  little.  "Privacy"  is  their 
watchword;  "publicity"  is  ours.  If  one  wants  a 
thing  in  England,  one  has  to  hunt  for  it ;  with  us,  the 
greatest  difficulty  is  to  escape  from  things  one  does 
not  want.  Advertising  is,  in  general,  but  little  under- 
stood. We  all  advertise ;  a  silk  hat  and  a  box  at  the 
opera  are  forms  of  advertising, —  by  such  means  one 
advertises  one's  arrival  in  society, —  but  a  profes- 
sional man  must  be  more  subtle  than  a  tradesman. 
I  have  always  maintained  that  a  successful  tradesman 
is  more  to  be  envied  than  any  other  person  in  the 
world :  he  is  not  obliged  to  wear  a  silk  hat ;  he  ad- 
vertises frankly,  "Here  are  candles,  three  for  a 
penny"  ;  the  inference  is,  take  them  or  leave  them. 

But  we  were  speaking  of  slogans.  Think  for  a 
moment  of  the  force  of  a  catchword  or  phrase  many 
million  times  repeated.  Politicians  spend  much  time 
inventing  slogans,  but  no  one  used  them  more  suc- 
cessfully than  Roosevelt,  with  his  "Predatory  Rich" 
and  his  "Big  Stick"  and  a  hundred  others.  In  gen- 
eral, slogans  stick ;  they  may  be  used  as  a  foundation 
on  which  a  superstructure  of  publicity  may  be  erected, 
or  as  the  capstone  of  an  advertising  campaign. 

From  my  point  of  view,  any  word  or  phrase  or  pic- 
ture or  thing  that  is  identified  with  or  instantly  calls 
to  mind  another  thing  is  a  slogan.  Does  any  Ameri- 
can, steaming  past  the  Rock  of  Gibraltar,  see  it  with- 
out thinking  of  a  certain  insurance  company,  or  see 


A  SLOGAN  FOR  BOOKSELLERS  105 

the  whiff  of  steam  floating  from  a  white  marble  pyra- 
mid as  he  enters  New  York  Harbor  without  associat- 
ing it  with  a  trust  company  of  almost  limitless  re- 
sources? "You  push  the  button";  "Ask  the  man 
who  owns  one";  "It  floats"  —  there  are  hundreds 
and  thousands  of  them,  bits  of  property  of  almost  in- 
calculable value,  because  they  are  recorded  in  the 
minds  of  millions,  rather  than  because  they  are  regis- 
tered in  the  United  States  Patent  Office. 

I  cannot  believe  that  any  enlightened  association, 
such  as  the  American  Booksellers'  Association  is, 
will  ever  use,  whatever  advertising  method  it  adopts, 
the  out-of-doors  signs  which  are  such  blisters  upon 
our  landscape.  As  if  to  make  the  approach  to  our 
cities  and  towns  more  hideous  than  they  already  are, 
"concessions"  are  secured  and  immense  signs  erected, 
calling  attention  to  the  merits  of  someone's  oil  as  a 
lubricant,  either  for  one's  motor  or  one's  bowels. 
Such  advertising  is  positively  loathsome,  and  sooner 
or  later  it  will  be  stopped.  Question  my  friend  Joe 
Pennell's  methods  if  you  will  (I  have  heard  him 
spoken  of  as  one  who  never  said  a  kind  word  or  did  an 
unkind  thing  to  anyone),  he  is  certainly  right  when 
he  says  that  these  great  signs  are  a  national  disgrace 
and  should  be  taxed  out  of  existence.  And  in  times 
like  these,  when  lumber  for  legitimate  building  is  ex- 
pensive and  transportation  difficult,  it  is  almost  a 
crime  to  use  millions  of  feet  of  lumber  in  erecting 
these  hideous  defilements  of  our  highways.  Should 
a  man  stand  outside  my  gate  and  beat  a  drum  night 
and  day,  he  would  ultimately  be  taken  either  to  a 


106  A  SLOGAN  FOR  BOOKSELLERS 

hospital  or  to  an  undertaker's ;  and  those  who  make 
our  country  hideous  with  their  shrieking  signs  should 
suffer  the  same  fate.  As  for  bill-board  advertising, 
the  case  of  our  towns  is  indeed  desperate ;  but  I  am 
not  altogether  without  hope. 

There  are  plenty  of  proper  advertising  media:  of 
newspapers  and  magazines,  having  a  total  circulation 
of  hundreds  of  millions,  there  is  no  lack;  while,  hi 
spite  of  the  fact  that  the  unskilled  laborer  now  has  his 
automobile,  many  of  us  still  hang  on  straps  in  trolley- 
cars,  and  our  minds  might  well  be  stimulated  the 
while.  And  I  do  not  despair  of  bookshop  windows 
being  made  at  least  as  attractive  as  those  displaying 
—  what  shall  I  say  ?  —  men's  hats.  Let  me  expand 
this  idea  a  little,  if  idea  it  is.  Shop-windows  have 
an  immense  advertising  value;  too  frequently  they 
are  decorated  by  the  shipping  clerk,  on  a  principle 
which  I  have  never  clearly  understood.  I  offer  the 
following  suggestion. 

Let  a  window  (always  the  same  window),  or  a 
portion  of  a  window  (always  the  same  portion), — 
against  a  background  of  best  sellers,  if  necessary; 
but  I  suggest  a  silken,  sad,  uncertain  curtain, —  be 
devoted  always  to  a  display  relating  to  some  author, 
the  anniversary  of  whose  birthday  or  death-day  is 
approaching. 

For  example,  take  Rudyard  Kipling  —  with  the  ex- 
ception of  Thomas  Hardy,  the  most  distinguished 
literary  man  now  living.  Suppose  that  on  December 
30,  1921,  we  secure  a  photograph  or  other  portrait 
and  announce  on  a  suitable  card,  "Rudyard  Kipling 


JOSEPH  PEXXELL,  OUR  GREAT  ARTIST 

Sketched  during  one  of  his  less  cantankerous  moods  by  F.  Walter  Taylor.     While  I  was  debuting  whether 
I  could  afford  to  buy  this  portrait,  my  son  secured  it  and  sent  me  the  bill,  thus  relieving  me  of  the 
difficulty  of  coming  to  a  decision 


A  SLOGAN  FOR  BOOKSELLERS  107 

is  56  years  old  to-day."  Then  suppose  that  we  sur- 
round the  man  with  his  works  —  first  editions,  auto- 
graph letters,  souvenirs,  etc.,  if  available ;  and  if  they 
are  not  in  stock,  perhaps,  if  we  are  in  Philadelphia, 
and  on  good  terms  with  the  owner  of  such  a  superb 
collection  as  Ellis  Ames  Ballard's,  we  may  secure  the 
loan  for  a  day  or  two  of  a  few  items  that  will  cause 
the  initiated  in  such  matters  to  rub  his  eyes  in 
amazement. 

The  idea  may  be  expanded,  and  details  added,  to 
such  an  extent  that,  in  course  of  time,  that  constantly 
changing  exhibit  will  be  a  liberal  education.  It  will 
have  a  drawing  power  that  people  will  be  unable  to 
resist.  They  will  cross  the  street  to  look  at  it ;  they 
will  think  of  it  and  speak  of  it,  and  be  glad  to  estab- 
lish relations  with  its  owners.  How  pleased  we  are 
when  the  head  waiter  of  a  well-established  restaurant 
addresses  us  by  name  when  we  enter !  A  bookshop 
may  hold  the  same  thrill  for  us. 

•But  you  may  say,  "  All  this  costs  money  and  takes 
time ;  I  have  no  one  available  for  such  a  job."  My 
reply  is  that  such  work  could  be  syndicated  and  its 
cost  divided  among  many.  Miss  Bessie  Graham, 
already  an  honorary  member  of  the  American  Book- 
sellers' Association  and  well  known  by  reason  of  her 
classes  and  papers  on  Bookselling,  is  admirably  fitted 
to  superintend  the  preparation  and  distribution  of 
such  suggestions  as  would  be  timely,  stimulating,  and 
helpful. 

Bookshops  can  and  should  furnish  a  sort  of  post- 
graduate course  in  literature.  Let  the  campaign  of 


108  A  SLOGAN  FOR  BOOKSELLERS 

education  go  forward :  and  let  us  so  carry  it  on  that 
every  he  or  she  who  reads  may  run  —  to  the  nearest 
bookshop.  I  am  not  an  advertising  agency.  Dr.  John- 
son called  advertising  a  trade ;  I  should  call  it  a  pro- 
fession, rather.  The  subject  should  be  carefully  studied 
by  someone  of  special  aptitude  and  training. 


AN    EARLY   KIPLING    ITEM    "WITH   THE   FLAP' 


VI 

"'TIS  NOT  IN  MORTALS  TO  COMMAND  SUCCESS." 

INDEED  it  is  not,  nor  has  "deserving"  anything 
whatever  to  do  with  it.  We  who,  by  dint  of  saving 
here  and  scraping  there,  manage  at  the  end  of  twenty 
years  or  so  to  have  a  respectable  collection  of  books, 
know  that  the  battle  is  not  always  to  the  brave,  but 
generally  to  the  side  of  the  heaviest  artillery ;  for  this 
is  no  puny  game  we  collectors  are  playing,  and  we  are 
playing  it  against  giants.  I  am  not  alluding  to  those 
men  who,  with  the  instincts  and  fortunes  of  the 
Medici,  get  their  names  in  the  paper  every  day;  I 
refer  to  the  collector  who  quietly,  almost  stealthily, 
goes  on,  day  after  day  and  year  after  year,  buying  in 
some  well-defined  line,  until  at  last  he  —  and  some- 
times she  —  may  be  said  to  have  everything.  But 
this  is  only  in  the  way  of  speaking,  for  no  collection 
is  ever  complete;  one  may  drop  dead  in  the  race 
with  the  goal  not  yet  in  sight ;  that 's  where  the  excite- 
ment lies. 

Such  thoughts  as  these  came  into  my  head  when, 
some  time  ago,  I  spent  several  days  with  a  man  in 
Buffalo,  a  man  so  modest  and  retiring  that  not  all 
of  his  friends  know  that  he  has  the  greatest  collection 
of  Johnson  and  Boswell  material  in  the  world.  I  refer, 
of  course,  to  Mr.  R.  B.  Adam.1  Sixteen  years  ago 

1  See  illustration  opposite  page  74. 


110  'TIS  NOT  IN  MORTALS 

Mr.  Adam  inherited  from  his  father,  the  late  Robert 
B.  Adam,  the  finest  collection  of  Johnsoniana  in  the 
world. 

As  I  am  accused  of  being  given  to  exaggeration 
whenever  I  speak  of  Dr.  Johnson,  let  me  hasten  to 
say  that  this  is  not  my  opinion  only,  but  that  it  was 
the  mature  judgment  of  that  great  Johnsonian  edi- 
tor, Birkbeck  Hill.  In  a  paper  printed  many  years 
ago  in  the  "Atlantic  Monthly,"  and  subsequently  de- 
livered in  a  somewhat  changed  form  before  the  John- 
son Club  in  London,  Dr.  Hill  said :  — 

"On  the  shores  of  Lake  Erie,  in  the  flourishing 
town  of  Buffalo,  I  found  a  finer  collection  of  John- 
sonian and  Boswellian  curiosities  than  exists  else- 
where on  our  side  of  the  Atlantic."  He  then  went  on 
to  describe  at  length  what  he  saw,  adding,  "  Great  as 
has  been  the  liberality  of  some  of  our  collectors  in 
letting  me  see  their  stores,  Mr.  Adam  in  his  liberality 
has  far  surpassed  them  all.  .  .  .  The  devout  John- 
sonian may  count  on  receiving  a  warm  welcome  .  .  . 
and  the  shrine  will  be  thrown  open  to  him.  ...  I 
shall  never  join  in  the  lament  that  is  raised  among  us 
Englishmen  when  autographs  and  rare  editions  of  our 
great  writers  are  bought  by  an  American." 

With  these  words  in  my  head  and  a  visiting  card  in 
my  hand,  I  presented  myself  to  the  present  Adam 
some  few  years  ago.  Twenty-seven  years  have  passed 
since  Dr.  Hill's  experience,  but  there  has  been  no 
change  in  the  family  manner.  Instantly  I  was  made 
to  feel  at  home,  and  a  warm  friendship  has  been  the 
result  of  an  almost  chance  meeting.  Indeed,  I  am 


TO  COMMAND  SUCCESS  111 

always  suspicious  of  the  man  to  whom  Samuel 
Johnson  does  not  make  appeal,  and  I  have  never  met 
a  good  Johnsonian  who  was  not  a  good  fellow. 

But  if  there  has  been  no  falling  off  in  the  kindly 
hospitality  of  the  Adam  family,  important  additions 
have  been  made  to  the  collection  by  its  present 
owner.  A  Johnson  or  a  Boswell  item  of  supreme  in- 
terest comes  to  the  surface  in  London,  New  York,  or 
elsewhere.  It  is  for  a  moment  conspicuous  and  then 
disappears,  subsequently  to  reappear  —  in  Buffalo. 
I  am  something  of  a  Johnsonian  myself.  Ever  since 
I  first  read  Boswell's  "Life  of  Johnson"  in  Napier's 
admirable  edition,  in  1884,  I  have  kept  a  copy  near 
at  hand  to  dip  into,  always  with  pleasure  and  with 
profit;  but  when  I  was  given  the  "freedom  of  the 
city,"  so  to  speak,  of  Mr.  Adam's  collection,  I  knew 
there  was  no  place  for  me  in  that  line,  and  I  turned 
to  Oliver  Goldsmith,  with  the  same  result ;  for  I  came 
to  know  that  Mr.  William  M.  Elkins  of  Philadelphia 
was  on  the  lookout  for  first  editions  of  everything 
that  Goldsmith  had  written,  until  at  last,  he  got 
them  all  —  all  except  one  item,  the  "  Threnodia 
Augustalis,"  of  which  only  two  copies  are  known; 
and  finally  one  of  these  two  fell  before  his  practi- 
cally unlimited  bid  at  the  Wallace  Sale — that  holo- 
caust which  took  place  in  New  York  in  the  winter 
of  1920. 

I  never  look  at  that  fine  old  mezzotint  of  Gold- 
smith across  the  room  without  thinking  of  my  pur- 
chase of  it  from  George  Rigby,  I  dropped  in  on  him 


112  'T  IS  NOT  IN  MORTALS 

one  day  and  saw  the  print,  saw  that  it  was  in  good 
condition,  and  asked  him  the  price. 

"Thirty  dollars,"  said  George;  "but  I  have  laid  it 
aside  for  your  friend  Hawley  McLanahan." 

"Has  he  seen  it?  Have  you  told  him  about  it?" 
I  inquired. 

"No,"  said  George,  "but  he  will  buy  it ;  he's  rather 
going  in  for  these  eighteenth-century  prints." 

The  print  was  worth  a  hundred.  Taking  from  my 
pocket  three  ten-dollar  bills,  for  money  talks  even  in 
so  uncommercial  an  establishment  as  Rigby's,  I  told 
him  to  roll  up  the  print.  As  he  was  doing  so,  rather 
reluctantly,  George  said,  "You  won't  say  anything 
about  it  to  McLanahan  ?  " 

"Oh,  won't  I!"  I  replied;  "you  shall  hear  from 
him,  and  promptly." 

When  I  got  back  to  my  office,  I  called  Mac  on  the 
phone  and  told  him  that  if  he  had  any  more  of  that 
brand  of  Scotch  for  which  he  was  famous,  I  would 
stop  in  during  the  evening  and  tell  him  a  good  story. 

"Come  along,"  he  said ;  "the  bottle  shall  be  on  the 
table  by  the  time  you  get  here." 

With  the  wisdom  of  a  man  from  Aberdeen,  I  let 
several  glasses  of  the  divine  liquor  trickle  down  my 
throat,  and  then,  and  not  until  then,  I  told  him  the 
story  of  my  purchase. 

It  did  not  take  me  long  to  discover  that  I  was  too 
late  to  become  either  a  Goldsmith  collector  or  to 
write  an  essay  about  him,  and  yet  I  should  like  to  do 
both :  out  of  pity  and  of  love.  Goldsmith  has  always 
been  misunderstood  —  in  his  own  day,  because  he  was 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 
After  the  portrait  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds 


TO  COMMAND  SUCCESS  113 

an  Irishman,  and  in  ours,  on  account  of  that  im- 
promptu epitaph  of  Garrick, — 

Here  lies  Nolly  Goldsmith,  for  shortness  called  "Noll," 
Who  wrote  like  an  angel  but  talk  'd  like  poor  Poll. 

Nothing  can  be  more  damaging  to  a  reputation  than 
a  stinging  couplet.  Crime  can  be  lived  down  —  in- 
deed, certain  crimes  give  one  a  sort  of  distinction; 
but  once  start  a  couplet  rolling,  and  it  gathers  mo- 
mentum until  it  crushes  all  who  oppose  it.  A  good 
example  of  this  is  supplied  by  the  epigram  of  the 
Earl  of  Rochester,  written  on  the  bedroom  door  of 
Charles  II :  — 

Here  lies  our  Sovereign  Lord  the  King, 
Whose  word  no  man  relies  on ; 
He  never  says  a  foolish  thing 
Or  ever  does  a  wise  one. 

In  vain  did  Charles  attempt  the  explanation  that  his 
words  were  his  own  while  his  acts  were  his  ministers' : 
it  all  went  for  naught.  But  I  am  not  in  the  least 
interested  in  the  reputation  of  the  Royal  Charles, 
whereas  Goldsmith's  is  inexpressibly  dear  to  me. 

Boswell  did  not  like  Goldsmith  —  indeed,  did  not 
understand  him;  and  Johnson,  although  he  greatly 
admired  him,  did  not  fully  understand  him,  either. 
The  best  retort  in  BoswelTs  book  is  Goldsmith's  reply 
to  Johnson  when  he  said  that,  if  he  were  writing  a 
fable,  he  would  make  his  animals  talk  in  character : 
he  would  make  little  fishes  talk  like  little  fishes. 
Johnson,  whose  sides  were  shaking  with  laughter  at 
the  turn  the  conversation  had  taken,  could  not  have 
been  altogether  pleased  when  Goldy  said :  "Why,  Dr. 


114  'TIS  NOT  IN  MORTALS 

Johnson,  this  is  not  so  easy  as  you  seem  to  think,  for 
if  you  were  to  make  little  fishes  talk,  they  would  talk 
like  whales."  And  it  was  Goldsmith,  too,  who,  when 
someone  called  Johnson  a  bear,  replied,  very  justly : 
"He  has,  to  be  sure,  a  certain  roughness  in  his  man- 
ner, but  no  man  alive  has  a  more  tender  heart.  He  has 
nothing  of  the  bear  but  his  skin."  And  when  someone 
called  Boswell  a  cur,  which  he  certainly  was  not, 
Goldsmith  at  once  corrected  it  to  burr,  saying  he  has 
the  quality  of  sticking.  Yet  Boswell  is  constantly 
talking  of  Goldsmith's  misfortunes  in  conversation ; 
and  whenever  his  name  is  mentioned,  one  almost  un- 
consciously repeats  to  one's  self  Garrick's  silly  couplet. 

Foiled  in  the  direction  of  Johnson  and  Goldsmith, 
I  looked  over  the  field  of  my  favorites.  Byron :  Mr. 
Morgan  has  them  all,  every  one.  Shelley :  too  volu- 
minous and  running  into  thousands  before  a  fair 
start  is  had;  when  Mr.  Thomas  J.  Wise  shows  you 
his  "  Shelley s,"  you  simply  expire  with  envy.  Lamb  : 
Mr.  Spoor's  carriage  blocks  the  way ;  it  is  a  carriage 
only  by  courtesy,  it  being  in  fact  a  well-furnished  van. 
Oscar  Wilde :  it  is  quite  useless ;  John  B.  Stetson  has 
everything.  Tennyson :  I  have  not  forgotten  that  rare 
day  I  spent  in  Mr.  W.  H.  Arnold's  library,  looking 
over  his  Tennyson  material ;  progress  in  that  direc- 
tion is  impossible.  Keats :  here  I  collide  with  Miss 
Amy  Lowell,  with  the  usual  result. 

But  something  may  yet  be  done.  Let  me  recon- 
noitre a  bit.  There  is  Leigh  Hunt.  It  is,  of  course,  a 
sad  falling  oft7 ;  but  is  there  a  book-lover  who  has  not 
in  his  heart  a  soft  spot  for  him?  I  admit  that  his 


MASK  OF  DAVID  GARRICK.  BY  R.  E.  PINE 
From  rare  mezzotint 


TO  COMMAND  SUCCESS  115 

books  are  patchy  and  gossipy,  but  he  was  a  man  of 
taste,  if  not  of  learning,  and  a  delightful  companion, 
and  who  does  not  know  that  a  delightful  companion 
is  harder  to  find  than  a  scholar  ?  Scholarship  may  be 
taught.  He  wrote  of  "Men,  Women,  and  Books"  — 
the  three  things  best  worth  writing  about.  How  I 
wish  I  could  have  paid  him  for  his  books,  instead  of 
the  booksellers  !  How  pleased  he  would  be  to  think  of 
himself  as  "collected."  Poor  fellow  !  fancy  having  to 
support  a  wife  in  poor  health  and  a  constantly  in- 
creasing crop  of  children  by  writing  such  books  as 
"Imagination  and  Fancy,"  and  "The  Old  Court 
Suburb,"  and  "A  Jar  of  Honey"  !  Is  it  any  wonder 
that  he  was  not  robust  in  money  matters,  and  that  he 
regarded  a  financial  transaction  as  completed  when  he 
had  given  his  I.  O.  U.  for  it.  I  have  been  brought  up 
in  a  more  practical  school,  but  I  never  close  the 
lid  of  my  desk  and,  under  the  plea  of  important  busi- 
ness, go  off  to  a  book-auction,  without  recalling  his 
remark:  "How  satisfactory  it  is  to  think  of  others 
nobly  doing  their  duty  while  I  am  following  the  bent 
of  my  own  inclinations." 

If  not  for  himself,  Leigh  Hunt  will  always  be  re- 
membered as  an  intimate  friend  of  the  three  poets 
who  made  the  first  quarter  of  the  nineteenth  century 
forever  memorable :  Byron,  with  whom  he  finally 
quarreled  —  temperamentally  they  had  nothing  in 
common;  Shelley,  whom  he  loved  and  by  whose 
funeral  pyre  he  watched;  and  Keats,  whose  genius 
he  was  the  first  to  recognize.  It  was  Hunt  who,  in 
May,  1816,  in  his  "Examiner,"  gave  Keats  his  first 


116  'TIS  NOT  IN  MORTALS 

appearance  in  print.  During  that  year  Keats  and 
Hunt  were  close  companions,  and  at  the  home  of  the 
latter  in  Hampstead,  they  read  and  wrote  much  to- 
gether and  lived  in  a  world  of  "Imagination  and 
Fancy."  On  December  1,  Hunt  published  in  his  paper 
Keats's  now  famous  sonnet,  "On  First  Looking  into 
Chapman's  Homer";  and  on  that  same  day  Hunt 
addressed  to  Keats  a  sonnet  in  which  he  prophesied 
that  he  would  wear  the  laurel.  Keats  kept  the  poem 
by  him,  and  it  was  found  by  Severn  among  his  papers 
after  his  death.  The  original  manuscript  is  in  my 
possession,  and  from  it  I  quote. 

TO  JOHN  KEATS 
'T  is  well  you  think  me  truly  one  of  those 
Whose  sense  discerns  the  loveliness  of  things ; 
For  surely  as  I  feel  the  bird  that  sings 
Behind  the  leaves,  or  the  Kiss-asking  rose, 
Or  the  rich  bee,  rejoicing  as  he  goes, 
Or  the  glad  issue  of  emerging  springs, 
Or,  overhead,  the  glide  of  a  dove's  wings, 
Or  trees,  or  turf,  or  midst  of  all  repose : 
And  surely  as  I  feel  things  lovelier  still, 
The  human  look  —  and  the  harmonious  form 
Containing  Woman  —  and  the  smile  in  ill, 
And  such  a  heart  as  Charles's,  wise  and  warm, 
As  surely  as  all  this,  I  see  e'en  now, 
Young  Keats,  a  flowering  laurel  on  your  brow. 
HAMPSTEAD,  Dec.  1,  1816. 

"One  of  the  most  interesting  personalities  I  have 
met  in  America,"  is  the  way  a  distinguished  English- 
man described  Miss  Lowell  to  me  after  a  visit  to  her 
in  Boston.  I  can  readily  understand  how  he  reached 
this  conclusion,  for  she  reminds  one  only  of  herself. 


SONNET  TO  JOHN  KEATS,  BY  LEIGH  HUNT 

From  the  original  manuscript 


117 

She  is  a  busy  woman,  not  altogether  easy  to  approach ; 
but  if  she  meets  you  at  all,  it  is  with  the  hearty  wel- 
come of  a  man  with  the  charm  of  a  woman,  for  this 
femme  savante  is  a  woman  of  the  world  and  of  many 
moods.  It  has  been  my  privilege  to  see  something  of 
her  in  her  lighter  hours,  to  listen  and  to  talk  to  her, — 
not  of  her  poetry,  I  am  of  the  school  of  Pope, —  but 
of  her  library.  "  Do  you  want  to  see  my  Blakes  or  my 
Keats?"  —  and  she  can  hold  your  attention  with 
either, —  she  will  say,  leading  you  into  a  fine  old  room 
overflowing  with  books.  "Let  us  work  up  to  speed 
gradually;  why  start  on  high?"  you  will  answer  — 
only  to  be  told  that  she  is  "geared  that  way."  Re- 
membering my  dear  old  Quaker  friend  Cadbury,  who 
proudly  carries  around  in  his  pocket  an  essay  by  Miss 
Lowell  in  the  form  of  a  letter  on  the  "Rollo"  books, 
you  suggest  that  you  begin  with  Rollo  —  on  the 
Atlantic,  or  elsewhere ;  and  in  a  moment  you  are  off 
—  "on  high"  —  in  spite  of  yourself ;  and  when  a  few 
moments  later  you  look  at  your  watch,  it  is  long  after 
midnight.  "No  matter,"  she  will  say,  "there  will  be 
a  motor  for  you,  and  the  evening  has  just  begun." 
And  when,  the  hours  being  no  longer  wee,  you  finally 
take  your  leave  of  her,  you  bid  her,  not  "Good- 
night," but  "Good-morning." 

Miss  Lowell  began  forming  her  library  many  years 
ago,  under  the  direction  of  the  elder  Quaritch ;  and  I 
can  quite  understand  that,  when  she  breezed  into  his 
shop  in  Piccadilly,  he  gave  her  the  run  of  the  place 
and  allowed  her  to  make  her  own  prices.  Accustomed 
as  he  was  to  lords  and  dukes  and  to  the  ways  of 


118 


'T  IS  NOT  IN  MORTALS 


JOHN    KEATS. 


American  millionaires,  this  young  girl,  so  alert  and 
clever  and  winsome,  must  have  made  the  old  man 
rub  his  eyes  and  wonder  whether  there  were  many 
Boston  girls  like  her.  Someone  must  have  told  him 

that  there  were  not.  I  can 
see  him  giving  her  a  cup 
of  tea,  which  she  would 
condescend  to  sip  only  be- 
cause it  gave  her  a  chance 
to  wheedle  out  of  the 
keeping  of  the  shrewd  old 
bookman  the  three  slen- 
der Keats  volumes  which 
—  with  one  love-affair  — 
made  up  his  entire  life. 
"Here  are  several  son- 
nets and  the  original 
manuscript  of  'The  Eve  of 
St.  Agnes,' "  Miss  Lowell 
will  say,  placing  them  in 
your  hands ;  and  you  will 
feel  a  gentle  thrill  as  you 
turn  the  soft  pages,  re- 
membering that  you  are  gazing  upon  immortal  poetry. 
And  then  she  will  show  the  silver  medal,  with  his 
name  engraved  thereon,  which  he  won  for  "  voluntary 
work"  when  a  lad  at  Mr.  Clarke's  Academy  at 
Enfield.  Finally,  you  may  be  permitted  to  read, 
perhaps,  in  her  "Lamia,"  which  the  poet  gave  to 
Fanny  Brawne  —  in  the  whole  realm  of  association 
books,  one  of  the  finest. 


LONDON: 

ROTTED  FOB 

C.  *  J.  OLLIER,  3,  WELBECK  STREET, 

CATEBDUH    fQUAHC. 
1817. 


JOHN  KEATS 

From  original  portrait  by  Severn,  sometimes  referred  to  as  the  "  lost  portrait." 


TO  COMMAND  SUCCESS 


119 


I  have  always  admitted  that  it  was  Miss  Lowell's 
enthusiasm  for  Keats  that  led  me  into  a  financial 
morass,  when  the  serpent  in  the  shape  of  Dr.  Rosen- 
bach  placed  before  me  for  inspection  a  collection  of 
Keats  material  that 
the  elder  Sabin  had 
been  years  in  as- 
sembling. In  recent 
years  all  my  finan- 
cial distress  has  been 
connected  with  Rosy. 
To  be  sure,  he  said 
very  little  —  there 
was  no  occasion;  he 
pointed  out  that  this 
was  my  opportunity ; 
in  brief,  "The  ser- 
pent beguiled  me  and 
I  did  eat."  What 
have  I  ?  Well,  with- 
out boasting,  I  have 
faultless  first  editions 
of  the  three  slender 
volumes  (but  alas,  no  presentation  copies;  Mr. 
Elkins  out-bid  me  on  the  last  lot  sold  at  auction), 
and  two  love  letters  to  Fanny  Brawne ;  the  manu- 
script of  one  poem  and  a  fine  cluster  of  autograph  let- 
ters from  Browning,  and  Mrs.  Browning,  Rossetti, 
Monckton  Milnes,  Tennyson,  and  others,  relating  to 
the  poet ;  and  the  earliest  portrait  known  of  Keats,  at 
the  age  of  fifteen  —  a  dainty  little  silhouette  height- 


PAGE  (MUCH  REDUCED)  FROM  A  LETTER 
OF  BENJAMIN  ROBERT  HAYDON  TO  ELIZ- 
ABETH BARRETT  (BROWNING)  1834. 


120  'TIS  NOT  IN  MORTALS 

ened  with  gold,  reproduced  by  Sir  Sidney  Colvin 
in  his  edition  of  the  poet's  works.  Nor  is  this  all. 
I  have  a  lovely  portrait  in  colored  crayons  of  the 
poet,  his  head  leaning  on  his  hand,  with  an  inscrip- 
tion: "John  Keats  by  J.  Severn,  from  life,  found 
among  my  father's  papers.  Walter  Severn,  1880." 

The  centenary  of  the  death  of  John  Keats,  who 
died  on  February  23,  1821,  lends  especial  interest  to 
the  death-bed  portrait  by  his  friend  Joseph  Severn. 
Truth  to  tell,  Severn  was  not  a  great  painter,  but  his 
name  will  ever  be  remembered  as  the  friend  of  one  of 
England's  greatest  poets,  by  whose  death-bed  he 
watched,  and  near  whom  he  is  buried. 

The  sketch  reproduced  is  perhaps  better  known 
than  any  other  portrait  of  Keats.  It  was  at  once 
recognized  that  Severn  had  caught  the  spiritual 
beauty  of  the  poet  as  he  lay  dying,  and  the  drawing 
becoming  famous,  several  copies  of  the  original  were 
made ;  one  of  these  is  in  the  Keats-Shelley  Memorial 
at  Rome,  and  another  may  be  seen  in  one  of  the  great 
private  libraries  of  New  York. 

My  reproduction  is  made  from  the  original  drawing, 
which  was  secured  by  a  well-known  London  book- 
seller some  years  ago  at  the  dispersal  of  the  effects  of 
Walter  Severn,  the  son  of  the  artist,  who  had  re- 
tained it,  and  from  which  the  several  replicas  were 
made.  The  faint  wording  beneath  the  sketch  reads : 
"  28  Jany .  3  o'clock  Mng.  drawn  to  keep  me  awake  — 
a  deadly  sweat  was  on  him  all  this  night." 

The  grave  of  Keats  in  the  Protestant  Burial 
Ground  in  Rome  is  visited  each  year  by  an  increasing 


s       ,  -_.  *•         ~->^ 

DEATH-BED  PORTRAIT  OF  JOHN  KEATS,  BY  JOSEPH  SEVERN 


TO  COMMAND  SUCCESS 


121 


number  of  pilgrims,  anxious  to  do  homage  to  the 
memory  of  the  poet  who  desired  that  his  epitaph 
should  be,  "Here  lies  one  whose  name  was  writ  in 
water."  Shelley's  reference  to  this  line  is  well  known. 

By  the  time  I  had 
secured  these  and 
several  more,  I  sup- 
posed that  my  collec- 
tion of  Keats  por- 
traits left  little  to  be 
desired,  until  I  re- 
ceived a  letter  from 
Sawyer,  the  London 
bookseller,  offering 
me  the  original  plas- 
ter portrait  of  Keats 
by  Girometti,  which 
had  once  belonged 
to  Keats's  intimate 
friend  Haslam,  with 
a  letter  from  Sir  Sid- 
ney Colvin  testifying 
to  its  authenticity. 
This  I  was  glad  to 
have,  as  it  is  the 
original  from  which  was  made  the  marble  medallion 
that  is  familiar  to  those  who  have  made  pilgrimages 
to  the  Protestant  Cemetery  in  Rome.  Something  tells 
me  that,  when  I  next  meet  my  friend  Nelson  Gay  in 
Rome,  he  will  offer  to  relieve  me  of  the  care  of  some 
of  these  treasures ;  and  if  I  can  ever  bring  myself  to 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  MARK 

From  the  original  manuscript,  taken  down  in  short- 
hand from  Keats's  dictation  to  his  friend  Woodhoiu* 


122  'TIS  NOT  IN  MORTALS 

part  with  any  of  these,  I  know  of  no  place  more 
fitting  for  them  than  the  Keats-Shelley  Museum  at 
Rome,  for  this  is  one  of  the  few  small  museums  in 
which  treasures  of  this  character  would  not  be  swal- 
lowed up  and  absolutely  lost.  There  were  several 
interesting  Keats  letters  to  Fanny  Brawne  sold  one 
evening  not  long  ago  at  the  Anderson  Galleries  in 
New  York,  which  led  to  the  writing  of  this  sonnet 
by  Christopher  Morley,  which  he  gave  me  leave  to 
reprint  rather  than  what  he  calls  his  "youthful  indis- 
cretion," which  appears  elsewhere. 

IN  AN  AUCTION  ROOM 

"How  about  this  lot?"  said  the  auctioneer, 
"One  hundred,  may  I  say,  just  for  a  start?" 

Between  the  plum-red  curtains,  drawn  apart, 
A  written  sheet  was  held.  .  .  .  And  strange  to  hear 

(Dealer,  would  I  were  steadfast  as  thou  art), 
The  cold  quick  bids  ("  Against  you  in  the  rear !") 
The  crimson  salon,  in  a  glow  more  clear 

Burned  bloodlike  purple  as  the  poet's  heart. 

Song  that  outgrew  the  singer !  Bitter  Love 

That  broke  the  proud  hot  heart  it  held  in  thrall  — 

Poor  script,  where  still  those  tragic  passions  move  — 

Eight  hundred  bid ;  f  ah*  warning ;  the  last  call ; 
The  soul  of  Adonais,  like  a  star.  .  .  . 
Soul  for  eight  hundred  dollars  —"Doctor  R !" 

It  so  happens  that  I  have  the  manuscript  of  Oscar 
Wilde's  sonnet  on  "The  Grave  of  Keats,  as  well 
as  the  sonnet  by  Rossetti  on  "Keats  Sixty  Years 


THE  GRAVES  OF   JOHN  KEATS  AND  JOSEPH  SEVERN  IN  THE  PROTESTANT 
CEMETERY  IN  ROME 


TO  COMMAND  SUCCESS  123 

Dead."  Both  of  these,  in  my  judgment,  are  dis- 
tinctly inferior  to  the  poem  given  above,  which,  in 
addition  to  doing  justice  to  Keats's  song,  "that  out- 
grew the  singer,"  is  cleverly  reminiscent  of  the 
auction-room. 


VII 

MEDITATIONS  ON  A  QUARTO  HAMLET 

LET  the  scholar  or  the  antiquary  decide  when 
English  literature  begins ;  for  me  it  begins,  not  at  the 
beginning,  but  with  Chaucer.  Of  what  went  before, 
my  impressions  are  vague  and  uncertain ;  but  Chaucer 
sometimes  seems  almost  as  alive  to  me  as  anyone  in 
"Who's  Who,"  particularly  when,  after  a  weary  win- 
ter, spring  comes  at  last,  and  the  birds  begin  to  sing, 
and  the  leaves  unfold  themselves  upon  the  trees. 
I  say  to  myself,  "It  was  on  such  a  day  as  this  that 
Chaucer's  pilgrims  set  out."  "On  such  a  day  as 
this,"  whether  the  sky  is  blue,  flecked  with  clouds  of 
white,  or  "Aprille"  threatens  us  with  her  customary 
showers ;  for  when  the  world  was  young,  as  it  was  five 
hundred  years  ago,  an  "Aprille"  shower  would  surely 
not  have  deterred  any  one  of  the  nine-and-twenty 
pilgrims  frqm  mounting  his  or  her  palfrey  in  the  yard 
of  the  Tabard  Inn  and  journeying  on  to  the  shrine  of 
the  murdered  Archbishop,  St.  Thomas  a  Becket,  at 
Canterbury.  But  the  English  in  which  Chaucer  wrote 
makes  it  more  or  less  difficult  for  any  except  the  stu- 
dent to  understand  him;  and  while  Coleridge  says 
that,  after  reading  twenty  pages  with  a  glossary,  there 
will  be  no  further  difficulty,  reading  with  a  glossary  is 
not  reading  but  studying,  and  alas,  how  few  of  us  care 
to  study  after  our  school  and  college  days  are  over ! 


MEDITATIONS  ON  A  QUARTO  HAMLET    125 

And  after  Chaucer,  I  leap  a  whole  century  and  a 
half  to  Shakespeare,  skipping  Spenser,  the  scholars', 
poets'  poet,  remembering  the  lines, — 

No  profit  grows  where  is  no  pleasure  ta'en, 
In  brief,  Sir,  study  what  you  most  affect, — 

which  I  have  always  done.  Of  Shakespeare,  it  is 
hardly  for  me  to  speak  except  from  the  viewpoint  of 
the  collector;  and  Shakespeare  has  now  become  al- 
most impossible  except  for  the  very  rich.  Let  but  a 
few  years  pass,  and  all  the  desirable  quartos,  and  even 
the  folios,  will  have  passed  into  that  bourne  whence 
no  book  returns  —  the  great  public  library.  How 
rapidly  they  are  going  is,  perhaps,  understood  only  by 
those  who  are  curious  in  such  matters.  Of  late  we 
have  heard  much  of  Mr.  Huntington's  buying  this,  of 
Mr.  Folger's  buying  that,  and  of  Mr.  Cochran's  buy- 
ing t  'other,  and  of  the  immense  sums  they  are  giving 
for  rare  books ;  but  these  gentlemen  are  not  spending 
their  money  selfishly.  Mr.  Cochran,  we  know,  buys 
for  that  wonderful  institution  which  he  has  estab- 
lished and  maintains  —  the  Elizabethan  Club  at 
Yale ; l  Mr.  Huntington's  books  have  gone  to  the 
State  of  California;  and  it  is  safe  to  say  that  Mr. 
Folger's  collection  will  never  be  dispersed.  These  are, 
in  effect,  public  libraries,  and  in  paying  seemingly 
high  prices,  their  owners  are  making  gifts  of  just  so 
much  money  to  the  public.  I  often  ask  myself  whether 
the  public  fully  appreciates  the  value  of  these  gifts. 
This  is  an  age  of  libraries,  and  I  never  enter  such 

1  Mr.  Newton  was  elected  an  honorary  member  of  the  Elizabethan 
Club  hi  AprU,  1921. 


126  MEDITATIONS  ON  A  QUARTO  HAMLET 

buildings  as  the  Congressional  Library  in  Washington 
and  the  public  libraries  of  New  York,  Boston,  Chi- 
cago (I  wish  I  could  add  Philadelphia),  without  won- 
dering whether,  in  the  centuries  to  come,  they  will 
ever  have  the  charm  for  the  student  that  so  many  of 
the  old-world  libraries  have  for  us  to-day ;  or  whether, 
after  our  habit,  they  will  be  torn  down  and  larger  and 
even  more  magnificent  buildings  erected. 

But  I  had  it  in  mind  to  write  a  page  or  two  on  the 
subject  of  Shakespeare  quartos.  Only  the  initiated 
understand  the  feeling  that  arises  in  the  heart  of  the 
collector  at  the  word  "  quartos  "  —  those  slender  little 
tracts  of  thirty  pages  or  so,  containing  single  plays, 
which  are  to-day  so  greatly  esteemed  that  the  rarest 
of  them  can  no  longer  be  had  for  the  hundreds  of  a 
few  years  ago,  but  now  run  into  thousands  of  dol- 
lars—  or  even  pounds,  if  you  like  that  denomination 
better.  I  sometimes  think  the  popularity  of  the 
quarto  is  due  in  no  small  measure  to  its  size.  It  is 
such  a  handy  little  book,  easily  referred  to ;  it  can  be 
collated,  or  studied,  or  shown  to  a  friend,  without  the 
necessity  of  clearing  off  a  table.  I  know  a  man,  John 
L.  Clawson  of  Buffalo,  who,  if  he  did  not  have  so 
many  other  rare  books,  might  be  said  to  collect  noth- 
ing but  quarto  plays ;  and  he  shows  them,  and  rightly 
too,  as  if  they  were  Whistler  etchings. 

Before  me  on  my  writing-table  there  is  a  set  of 
proofs  of  a  catalogue  soon  to  be  published  by  the 
Rosenbach  Company,  to  inaugurate  the  opening  of 
its  new  establishment  in  New  York  City.  There  are 
only  twenty-nine  items  in  it,  but  it  is,  nevertheless, 


MEDITATIONS  ON  A  QUARTO  HAMLET   127 

one  of  the  most  remarkable  book-catalogues  ever 
printed;  for  it  is  entirely  devoted  to  Shakespeare 
quartos,  and  the  prices  for  common,  or  garden,  va- 
rieties range  from  $500,  for  a  late  "  Julius  Caesar,"  to 
$32,500  for  an  unbound  and  uncut  "Pericles" ;  while 
a  "Troilus  and  Cressida"  may  yet  be  had  for  $12,500. 
This,  we  are  told,  is  known  as  the  "Prologue  Issue," 
because  of  the  prophecy  expressed  therein  of  the 
great  demand  that  will  ensue  for  these  quartos  after 
Shakespeare's  death.  It  is  indeed  startling  in  its 
aptness ;  it  reads :  "  When  he  is  gone  and  his  comedies 
out  of  sale,  you  will  scramble  for  them."  With  values 
running  to  something  like  a  thousand  dollars  a  page, 
I  would  say  that  the  scramble  is  almost  over,  and 
that  any  further  proceedings  will  partake  of  the 
nature  of  a  triumphal  procession. 

I  once  heard  of  a  person  beginning  a  conversation 
by  a  repartee.  In  like  manner,  I  find  that  I  have 
introduced  my  own  almost  lonely  quarto  by  an  anti- 
climax. The  story  of  my  little  book  begins  in  that 
delicious  Old- World  library,  the  Bodleian  at  Oxford 
—  as  far  removed  from  the  firing-line  of  affairs  as  it 
is  possible  to  get.  There,  in  the  splendid  collection  of 
quartos,  once  the  property  of  that  distinguished 
Shakespearean  scholar  and  collector,  Edmund 
Malone,  is  a  rare  "Hamlet,"  on  the  fly-leaf  of  which 
is  written  by  its  former  owner,  "This  edition  was 
printed,  I  believe,  in  1607."  I  have  just  spent  a 
pleasant  hour  reading  in  a  copy  of  this  same  edition, 
now  generally  known  as  the  "undated  Hamlet."  It 
is  one  of  my  recent  acquisitions,  and  according  to 


128  MEDITATIONS  ON  A  QUARTO  HAMLET 

Bartlett  &  Pollard's  "Census"  —  and  there  is  no 
higher  authority  —  is  one  of  only  six  copies  in  pri- 
vate hands,  the  few  other  known  copies  being  safely 
anchored  in  public  libraries. 

The  genesis  of  such  a  play  as  "Hamlet"  is  one  of 
the  most  interesting  things  in  bibliographical  his- 
tory. The  first  edition  of  "Hamlet"  (1603)  is  very 
far  from  being  the  play  as  we  know  it :  it  has  only 
2143  lines,  as  against  3719  lines  in  the  second  edition 
(1604),  on  which,  together  with  the  first  folio  edition 
(1623),  the  acting  version  of  to-day  is  based.  Mr. 
Huntington  divides  with  the  British  Museum,  on  the 
basis  of  fifty-fifty,  the  honors  of  the  first  edition.  His 
copy,  to  be  sure,  lacks  the  last  leaf,  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  the  British  Museum  copy  lacks  the  title-page ; 
so  the  advantage,  if  any,  is  with  us.  But  it  is  prob- 
able that,  in  spite  of  Malone,  the  "undated  Hamlet" 
is  not  the  third  edition,  but  rather  the  edition  of  1611. 
However  this  may  be,  my  "Hamlet"  is  a  very  pretty 
bibliographical  treasure,  coming  as  it  does  from  the 
Marsden  J.  Perry  collection  of  Shakespeareana, 
which  Dr.  Rosenbach  purchased  en  bloc  and  dis- 
persed almost  before  we  knew  what  he  was  doing.1 

1  My  Hamlet  is  unbound ;  that  is  not  to  say  it  is  in  sheets,  for  it  has 
been  bound,  probably  in  a  volume  of  old  plays,  and  closely  cropped. 
Having  once  been  bound,  its  present  appearance  is  not  elegant,  and  it 
is  desirable  that  it  should  be  put  in  substantial  covers.  So  to  Mar- 
guerite Lahey  of  New  York  (out  of  Paris,  as  a  stud-book  would  say) 
it  shall  go,  without  instructions  other  than  that  she  is  to  make  the 
binding  worthy  of  the  intellectual  and  intrinsic  value  of  the  book.  I 
seek  not  to  know  in  advance  what  the  cost  will  be,  or  when  it  will  be 
finished ;  for  Miss  Lahey  is  one  of  the  world's  greatest  binders,  and  is 
not  to  be  hurried.  She  is  not  an  accomplished  amateur,  as  some  might 


I 


TRAGEDY 


Trince  of  Ttenmarkg. 

Newly  Imprinted  andinlargcd,  according  to  the  true 
,.    and  pcrfea  Copy  laftly  Printed. 

BY 
WILLIAM  SHA.KBS'.FBARB. 


LONDON, 

Primed  by  W,  S.  for  Itb*  Smeth^ickf^  and  are  to  be  fold  *t  hit 

Shop  in  Saint  Dwtft#*t  Cb ut-  h-y atd.  in  Fleetftr ces : 

Vnuei  thv  thill. 


THE  RARE  QUARTO  "HAMLET,"  KNOWN  TO   COLLECTORS 
AS  THE  "UNDATED   HAMLET' 


MEDITATIONS  ON  A  QUARTO  HAMLET    129 

When  Rosy  moves,  it  is  difficult  to  follow  him  — 
difficult,  nay,  it  is  frequently  impossible. 

I  have  always  tried  to  steer  clear  of  such  books  as 
these,  regarding  them  as  dangerous  rocks  lying  on 
either  side  of  the  narrow  channel  which  I  try  to  navi- 
gate, against  which  my  fragile  bark  may  be  dashed 
to  pieces  in  an  instant.  But  "Hamlet"  is  such  a  won- 
derful play !  And  I  never  think  of  it  but  I  see  in 
imagination  those  two  volumes  compact  with  learn- 
ing, the  variorum  "Hamlet"  of  the  late  Dr.  Furness, 
beloved  by  all  who  knew  him ;  and  I  never  meet  his 
son  but  there  comes  into  my  mind  a  line  out  of 
Pope's  translation  of  the  Iliad, —  or  the  Odyssey,  I 
forget  which ;  I  have  not  read  either  for  more  than 
forty  years, — 

Few  sons  inherit  the  wisdom  of  their  great  sires, 
And  most  their  sires'  disgrace. 

Certainly  he  is  of  the  few.  In  this  Philadelphia 
family,  as  in  the  Adams  family  of  which  Boston  is  so 
proud,  scholarship  appears  to  be  a  birthright. 

Horace  J.  Bridges,  in  his  most  enjoyable  book, 
"Our  Fellow  Shakespeare"  ("Why  here's  our  fellow 
Shakespeare  puts  them  all  downe!" —  The  Returne 
Jrom  Pernassus,  1606),  says:  "The  child  ought  to 
start  by  loving  'Hamlet*  for  the  sake  of  the  Ghost, 
the  poisoning,  the  usurpation,  the  entrapping  of 
Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern,  the  fencing-match, 

for  a  moment  suppose,  but  a  woman  of  learning  and  great  skill  in  her 
art,  and  of  impeccable  taste.  This  is  not  my  opinion  merely, —  my 
opinion  in  the  matter  of  bindings  is  almost  worthless, —  but  it  is  the 
mature  judgment  of  such  connoisseurs  as  Belle  da  Costa  Greene,  Miss 
Thurston,  and  others  expert  in  such  matters. 


130  MEDITATIONS  ON  A  QUARTO  HAMLET 

the  poisoned  rapiers,  and  the  envenomed  wine-cup." 
This  is  exactly  the  spot  at  which  I  began.  It  was  in 
1876,  the  year  of  the  Centennial  Exposition,  and  I 
was  twelve  years  old.  I  remember  the  time  and  the 
place  :  it  was  on  a  Sunday  evening,  the  family  had  all 
gone  to  church,  and  I  was  quite  alone  in  the  house ; 
and  when  I  came  to  the  lines, — 

I  am  thy  father's  spirit 

Doom  'd  for  a  certain  term  to  walk  the  night, 

And  for  the  day  confin  'd  to  fast  in  fires, — 

I  thought  that,  if  the  family  did  not  soon  come  home 
from  church,  a  little  boy  would  be  missing  when  they 
did  —  and  yet  I  could  not  put  the  book  down.  For 
three  centuries,  on  the  stage  and  in  the  closet, 
"Hamlet"  has  been  the  supreme  play;  one  never 
tires  of  it,  one  knows  it  almost  by  heart,  and  instead 
of  reading  it,  one  finds  one's  self  reciting  those  pas- 
sages which  have  almost  lost  their  significance,  so 
hackneyed  they  have  become.  What  a  thrill  must 
have  passed  through  lords  and  groundlings  at  the  old 
Globe  Theatre  when  these  immortal  words  were  ut- 
tered for  the  first  time :  "To  be  or  not  to  be" ;  or 
The  time  is  out  of  joint :  O  cursed  spite, 
That  ever  I  was  born  to  set  it  right. 

And  that 's  where  I  have  the  advantage  of  Hamlet, 
or  of  any  prince  whatever ;  for  I  was  not  so  born,  and 
I  sometimes  wonder  whether  the  time  is  not  always 
out  of  joint ;  our  tune  certainly  is  —  owing  in  no 
small  measure,  as  it  seems  to  me,  to  the  obstinacy  of 
a  little  group  of  one  willful  man ;  and  if  it  be  objected 
that  one  man  cannot  properly  be  called  a  group,  let 


MEDITATIONS  ON  A  QUARTO  HAMLET    131 

me  reply  that,  when  that  man  is  the  President  of  the 
United  States,  he  counts  double  or  triple,  or  as  many 
as  you  will.  What  page  in  the  last  court  grammar 
made  him  a  plural  is  not  for  me  to  inquire. 

And  now  I  remember  that  I  am  writing  on  the  4th 
of  March,  1920.  One  year  from  to-day  the  President 
will  slink  out  of  the  White  House  and  pass  into  his- 
tory, where  his  idiosyncrasies  can  be  studied  at 
leisure ;  and  at  the  same  hour,  another  man  will  drop 
the  pleasant  cameraderie  of  the  candidate  and,  as- 
suming the  insolence  of  office  (though  in  this  respect 
he  is  unlikely  to  match  the  present  incumbent),  will 
proceed  to  govern  us  in  such  manner  as  will  redound 
to  his  greatest  personal  advantage  and  ensure  him  a 
second  term  in  office.  And  to  this  end,  we,  every  so 
often,  permit  ourselves  to  become  enthusiastic,  and 
form  clubs,  and  even  march  in  the  streets,  wearing 
silk  hats,  under  the  delusion  that  we  are  influencing 
the  course  of  events. 

In  times  like  these,  what  a  relief  it  is  to  close  the 
door  upon  the  world,  with  its  wrangling  and  recrim- 
ination, and  enter  that  other  cosmos  —  the  world  of 
books ;  that  substantial  world  around  which,  as 
Wordsworth  says,  "our  pastime  and  our  happiness 
will  grow."  Is  there  not  some  scrap  of  paper,  not  yet 
totally  destroyed,  granting  us  life,  liberty,  and  an 
opportunity  for  the  pursuit  of  that  will-o'-the-wisp, 
happiness  ?  I  sometimes  think  that  I  have  found  it  in 
my  library.  When  I  can  be  sure,  I  shall  announce  the 
fact ;  but  this  much  is  certain  :  I  am  happier  here  than 
elsewhere  in  the  world,  unless  it  be  in.  London ;  and 


132  MEDITATIONS  ON  A  QUARTO  HAMLET 

what  is  London  but  a  book,  in  which  is  written  every- 
thing that  can  by  any  possible  chance  interest  an  in- 
telligent person  speaking  English  as  his  mother- 
tongue  ? 

What  a  delight  it  is,  at  the  end  of  a  busy  day,  to 
throw  one's  self  into  an  arm-chair  before  a  wood  fire, 
and  think.  No,  not  think !  muse  is  a  better  word.  I 
am  by  no  means  sure  that  I've  ever  thought,  and 
I  'm  not  certain  that  I  wish  to ;  looking  about  me,  I 
see  thinkers,  and  it  does  not  appear  that  they  are 
either  wiser  or  better  or  happier  than  I.  What  has  all 
the  mental  truck  and  sweat  of  the  thinkers  of  Ger- 
many amounted  to?  "The  land  of  the  damned  pro- 
fessor ! "  Indeed,  one  does  not  have  to  say  that  Ger- 
many to  a  man  was  wrong;  there  were  probably  a 
few  commonplace  business  men,  like  myself,  who  did 
not  like  the  drift  of  things ;  but  certainly  their  heavy 
thinkers  have  made  a  sad  mess  of  it.  By  taking 
thought  they  seemed  to  add  cubits  to  their  stature ; 
they  thought  of  themselves  as  supermen,  but  it  was 
all  a  mistake.  And  now  we  are  aweary  from  our 
finally  successful  effort  to  teach  them  that  the  world 
is  a  partnership,  not  a  monopoly. 

Six  years  have  passed  since  I  last  saw  London,  six 
of  the  most  eventful  years  in  the  history  of  that  hoary 
capital;  we  have  seen  the  course  of  empire  take  its 
way  westward,  and  the  centre  of  financial  gravity 
shifted  to  New  York.  Shall  we  take  advantage  of  our 
opportunities?  I  fear  not.  For  well  over  a  year  we 
have  been  like  a  ship  without  a  rudder,  keeping  our 
course  only  through  our  own  momentum;  but  we 


MEDITATIONS  ON  A  QUARTO  HAMLET    133 

have  begun  to  slow  down,  and  in  another  year  we 
shall  be  drifting  this  way  and  that  with  the  ebb  and 
flow  of  the  tide ;  on  the  rocks  perhaps,  for  since  the 
signing  of  the  Armistice  no  one  has  been  at  the  helm 
of  our  ship  of  state.  "Ship  of  state !"  Call  it  rather 
the  "Pinafore,"  manned  by  such  a  crew  as  has  never 
been  seen  off  the  comic-opera  stage. 

Forty-odd  years  ago,  the  exquisite  wit  of  W.  S. 
Gilbert,  working  in  collaboration  with  that  of  a  gifted 
musician,  Arthur  Sullivan,  produced  one  of  the  most 
rollicksome,  jolliest,  and  tunefulest  of  comic  operas. 
It  was  so  merry,  and,  with  all  the  humor,  was  so 
pointed  and  obvious,  that  it  swept  over  the  entire 
world.  In  our  own  country  there  was  hardly  a  church 
choir  that  was  not  provided  with  the  words  and 
music,  which  were  sung  upon  every  possible  occasion. 

Mercifully  it  is  not  often  that  what  has  served  to 
give  one  generation  exquisite  amusement  should  be 
seriously  adopted  by  another  generation  as  a  form  of 
administration  during  a  great  crisis  in  its  history. 
Perhaps  it  has  never  been  done  before;  and  the  re- 
sults of  so  doing  have  been  so  disastrous  that  it  may 
never  be  done  again ;  but  one  never  can  tell  —  we 
have  such  a  genius  for  destruction !  Is  it  not  curious 
that  our  political  rewards  go,  almost  invariably,  either 
to  a  commonplace  man,  because  he  has  not  made 
enemies  and  is  for  that  reason  "available,"  or  to  one 
who,  ostensibly  in  the  interests  of  reform,  has  de- 
stroyed something.  Our  methods  of  rewards  and 
punishments  are  so  unusual  as  to  excite  the  remark 
of  other  nations.  If  a  man  achieves  distinction  in  art 


134  MEDITATIONS  ON  A  QUARTO  HAMLET 

or  science,  he  is  completely  ignored ;  if  he  does  a  fine 
piece  of  constructive  work,  whether  in  railroading  or 
what  not,  the  government  seeks  to  destroy  his  work 
and,  whether  successful  or  otherwise,  holds  up  to 
scorn  the  man  who  has  created  it.  Such  success  as 
we  had  in  the  war  was  almost  entirely  due  to  our 
business  men,  whom  at  one  time  or  another  the 
government  sought  to  destroy. 

On  the  other  hand,  our  politicians,  too  frequently 
recruited  from  our  criminal  classes,  are  the  raw  ma- 
terial out  of  which  our  statesmen  are  made.  We  are 
familiar  with  the  legal  axiom  that  "ignorance  of  the 
law  is  no  excuse."  We  might  go  further  and  suggest 
that  ignorance  is  the  passport  to  authority.  Cer- 
tainly it  is  no  bar  to  high  office.  We  have  permitted 
ourselves  to  think  that  the  silliest  thing  in  the  world 
is  the  plot  of  a  comic  opera.  There  is  one  thing  even 
sillier,  and  that  is  the  method  by  which  we  select,  or 
have  selected  for  us,  those  who  would  govern  us. 
Think  of  the  present  Mayor  of  New  York  City,  or 
the  former  Director  of  Public  Safety,  so-called,  of  the 
City  of  Philadelphia !  Is  it  any  wonder  that  a  man 
well  born,  well  educated,  honest  and  conscientious, 
shrinks  from  politics  as  a  career?  And  we  are  so 
complacent  at  this  state  of  things  that  those  who 
complain  are  generally  regarded  as  unpatriotic. 

If  by  chance  a  man  is  well  equipped  for  the  office 
he  holds,  what  happens?  He  looks  about  him,  and 
too  frequently  sees  his  constituents  amused  by,  or 
indifferent  to,  his  efforts  on  their  behalf.  He  asks 
for  assistance.  Thumbs  down  ! 


MEDITATIONS  ON  A  QUARTO  HAMLET    135 

We  are  the  only  nation  that  keeps,  if  we  may  be 
said  to  keep,  an  annual  Thanksgiving  Day,  and  we 
have  much  to  be  thankful  for :  we  dwell  on  a  great 
continent,  in  the  enjoyment  of  its  practically  un- 
scratched  resources ;  but  politically  we  are  babes  in 
a  wood.  It  would  be  proper  for  the  nations  of  Europe 
to  hold  an  international  thanksgiving  day,  on  which 
all  the  inhabitants  of  Britain,  Germany,  France, 
Italy,  and  Russia,  in  the  order  named,  should  drop 
on  their  knees  and  give  thanks  to  their  respective 
gods  for  our  administrative  stupidity.1 

Meanwhile,  the  Empire  upon  which  the  sun  never 
sets  is  greater  than  ever.  Not  long  ago  I  dropped 
into  Drake's  bookshop  in  40th  Street,  New  York,  to 
pass  half  an  hour  while  waiting  for  a  friend  who  was 
to  join  me  at  lunch  at  my  club  near-by.  I  was  blue : 
it  seemed  as  if  I  owed  money  to  every  bookseller  in 
New  York,  and  there  had  been  a  five-point  decline 
in  United  Kingdom  bonds  in  which  I  had  been  inju- 
diciously investing. 

I  had  determined  to  pay  my  bills  and  to  buy  noth- 
ing, and  was  about  leaving  the  shop  when  Drake 
said,  "There  is  a  little  book  that  you  ought  to  buy; 
fifty  dollars." 

I  looked  at  it :  Kipling's  Poems ;  but  the  value  was 

1  For  example,  Mr.  Wilson,  or  his  advisers,  caused  two  terrific  pan- 
ics —  a  buying  panic  and  a  selling  panic  —  in  the  sugar  trade,  to 
develop  in  the  year  1920.  Thousands  of  business  men  will  carry  the 
marks  of  this  quite  unnecessary  disaster  to  their  dying  day.  I  am 
quite  sure  that  my  friend  Mr.  Earl  D.  Babst,  President  of  the  Ameri- 
can Sugar  Company,  will  be  glad  to  send  to  anyone  interested  the  de- 
tails of  this  remarkable  occurrence. 

On  the  subject  of  "prohibition"  I  forbear  to  speak. 


136  MEDITATIONS  ON  A  QUARTO  HAMLET 

given  it  by  a  verse  in  Kipling's  handwriting,  signed 
by  him,  reading, — 

If  England  were  what  England  seems, 
And  not  the  England  of  our  dreams, 
But  made  of  putty,  brass  and  paint, 
How  quick  we'd  chuck  her  —  But  she  ain't. 

"No,"  said  I,  "I'm  not  to  be  tempted."  And  I 
went  off  to  my  club,  ate  my  lunch  meditatively,  and 
finally  said  to  myself,  "  Don't  be  a  fool !  Go  back  and 
buy  that  book." 

Lighting  a  cigar,  I  strolled  slowly  back  to  Drake's 
and,  as  I  entered,  met  him  at  the  door,  saying  to  a 
departing  customer,  "You'll  not  regret  your  pur- 
chase." 

Something  told  me  his  customer  had  the  Kipling 
(I  saw  that  he  had  a  book  under  his  arm) .  I  stopped 
him.  "Sir,"  I  said,  "is  it  possible  that  you  have 
bought  that  volume  of  Kipling  with  a  verse  in  it?" 

"Why,  yes,"  he  replied.   "Did  you  want  it?" 

"I  saw  it  an  hour  ago,  and  came  back  for  it,"  said  I. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "you  are  too  late;  to  quote  your 
own  words,  'I  shall  not  pass  this  way  again.'"  And 
he  went  out  wearing  as  cheery  a  smile  as  I  have  ever 
seen  on  the  face  of  any  man. 

I  often  wonder  whether  the  English  will  ever  un- 
derstand us,  or  we  them ;  whether  the  net  result  of 
the  war,  in  so  far  as  a  better  understanding  between 
the  two  nations  is  concerned,  is  not  to  increase  rather 
than  diminish  the  differences  between  us.  We  are  so 
cocky  and  vulgar,  and  they  are  so  condescending  and 
supercilious. 


JAMES  F.  DRAKE 
From  an  etching  by  Wall 


MEDITATIONS  ON  A  QUARTO  HAMLET    137 

During  all  the  long  weary  days  of  the  war  I  never 
for  a  moment  doubted  that  England  would  dictate 
the  terms  of  peace ;  even  after  we  entered  and  threw 
our  immense  resources  of  men  and  money  into  the 
balance,  not  even  on  that  dreadful  day  when  Gough's 
fifth  army  was  destroyed,  when  Amiens  was  almost 
within  rifle-shot  of  the  enemy,  when  Haig  made  the 
announcement  that  would  have  prostrated  any  other 
nation,  "Our  backs  are  to  the  wall,"  never  did  it 
occur  to  me  to  doubt  that  England  would  dictate  the 
terms  of  peace;  but  how  completely  she  would  win 
the  war,  I  began  to  suspect  only  when  the  President 
made  the  fatal  mistake  of  going  to  Paris,  there,  alone 
and  unaided, —  for  he  would  have  it  so, —  to  confront 
the  most  astute  diplomats  of  the  time.  Why  did  he 
do  it  ?  Any  tyro  could  have  told  him  that,  if  he  had 
kept  out  of  the  hurly-burly  of  Paris  he  could  have 
imposed  his  will  upon  the  world.  If  he  had  but  re- 
mained secluded  and  detached !  But  his  vanity  got 
the  upper  hand,  and  he  made  the  fatal  mistake  of 
showing  Europe  that  he  was  not  the  god  it,  for  a 
moment,  thought  him,  but  a  man  like  other  men. 

"Politics  is  adjourned,"  he  cried,  meanwhile  play- 
ing the  game  more  coarsely  than  it  has  ever  been 
played  before  in  such  a  crisis,  and  flagrantly  insulting 
the  men  with  whom  he  knew  that,  sooner  or  later,  he 
would  have  to  work.  The  one  clear  and  unequivocal 
statement  that  came  from  Paris  was  the  announce- 
ment of  the  death  of  Roosevelt,  which  we  knew  of 
before  he  did,  and  with  the  details  of  which  it  was 
absurd  for  him  to  clutter  up  the  cables.  And  so, 


138  MEDITATIONS  ON  A  QUARTO  HAMLET 

surrounded  by  little  men, —  for  he  could  work  with 
none  other, —  with  whom  he  quarreled  and  whom  he 
insulted  when  they  disagreed  with  him,  he  played  a 
lone  hand,  and  lost.  Perhaps  it  was  well  for  us  that 
he  did.  Who  knows?  Certainly  he  was  elected 
President  of  the  United  States  and  not  President  of 
a  League  of  Nations,  to  which  he  had  no  right  to 
commit  us  without  our  consent.  The  little  group  of 
"willful  men"  in  the  Senate  who  opposed  him  simply 
insisted  upon  not  being  deprived  of  their  constitu- 
tional rights. 

A  considered  "Life  and  Times  of  Woodrow  Wilson" 
cannot  be  written  in  our  generation ;  he  has  aroused 
too  many  antagonisms. 

Only  when  all  the  actors  in  the  greatest  tragedy 
the  world  has  ever  seen  are  dead,  can  such  a  work  be 
attempted.  Such  books  as  are  now  appearing  are 
merely  the  timber  out  of  which  the  final  story  will  be 
constructed.  To  me  the  President  appears  to  be  cold, 
selfish,  and  self-centred,  and  although  fatally  fluent 
in  expression,  incapable  of  speaking  generously  of 
either  friend  or  foe,  or  frankly  of  anything.  Unable 
to  make  friends, —  it  would  be  more  exact  to  say, 
unable  to  keep  them  when  made, —  he  has  shown  his 
complete  incapacity  for  working  with  other  men  at  a 
time  when  team-work  is  a  prerequisite  for  success. 

When  the  old  world  was  in  flames,  and  when  it  was 
almost  certain  that  the  conflagration  would  reach 
these  shores,  he,  in  full  control  of  affairs,  did  not  even 
inquire  as  to  the  cost  of  a  chemical  engine  or  order  a 
fire-bucket.  When  at  long  last  we  entered  the  con- 


MEDITATIONS  ON  A  QUARTO  HAMLET    139 

flict,  it  was  with  a  pacifist,  who  "thanked  God  that 
we  were  unprepared,"  as  Secretary  of  War,  and  the 
editor  of  a  village  newspaper  as  Secretary  of  the  Navy. 
In  our  haste  we  squandered  billions.  Soon  we  shall 
discover  that  it  is  easy  to  borrow  but  difficult  to  pay, 
and  our  children's  children  will  still  be  struggling 
with  a  burden  of  debt  that  his  lack  of  prescience 
loaded  upon  us. 

Last  in  the  war,  Mr.  Wilson  wills  it  that  we  shall 
be  last  in  peace  also  —  I  would  not  finish  the  dis- 
torted quotation,  but  rather  —  "The  rest  is  silence."1 

1  In  the  preparation  of  these  papers  for  the  press,  I  have  allowed 
my  criticism  of  Mr.  Wilson  to  remain  just  as  it  was  written  a  year 
ago.  Occupying  for  a  moment  a  position  exalted  beyond  his  deserts, 
Mr.  Wilson,  now  a  private  citizen,  may  survey  that  portion  of  the 
disaster  which,  if  he  did  not  cause,  he  could  to  some  extent  have  pre- 
vented. History  will  for  some  time  be  busy  with  the  personality  of 
the  man  who  sought  to  reverse  the  old  adage,  "Actions  speak  louder 
than  words."  While  he  was  "matching  minds"  with  men  more  flex- 
ible and  astute  than  he,  the  ship  of  state  which  he  had  sworn  to  pro- 
tect was  pounding  upon  the  rocks.  It  will  be  floated  after  a  time  by 
men  abler  and  kindlier  than  he. 

The  individual  lessens  and  the  world  is  more  and  more. 
A  man  may  be  wiser  than  some  other  men,  but  rarely  wiser  than  all 
other  men.  When  he  feels  that  he  is  so,  it  behooves  him  to  move 
carefully.  To  warnings  and  to  danger-signals,  Mr.  Wilson  paid  no 
attention.  As  the  pen-pictures  of  him  multiply,  it  is  seen  that  the 
thumb-nail  sketch  by  John  M.  Keynes,  in  The  Economic  Consequences 
of  the  Peace,  is  likely  to  become  the  official  portrait. 


VIII 

WALT  WHITMAN 

I  WALKED  away  from  Stan.  Henkels's  auction-room 
in  Walnut  Street  one  afternoon  some  time  ago  in  a 
reminiscent  mood.  Stan,  had  just  "cried  the  sale," 
as  he  calls  it,  of  a  lot  of  Whitman  material  formerly 
the  property  of  my  old  friend,  the  late  Isaac  Hull 
Platt.  Dr.  Platt  has  been  dead  for  some  years,  and 
in  less  than  two  hours  a  collection  had  been  disposed 
of  which  its  former  owner  had  spent  years  in  getting 
together.  It  is  much  easier  to  disperse  a  collection 
than  to  assemble  one;  I  remember  how  proud  Dr. 
Platt  was  of  his  collection,  how  complete  and  valu- 
able he  thought  it.  "It  will  be  sold  some  day,"  he 
said,  "and  it  will  make  the  boys  sit  up."  I  am  glad 
he  was  not  there ;  for  the  boys  were  not  many,  and 
they  sat  up  for  a  few  minutes  only  and  then  seemed 
to  fall  into  a  deep  sleep,  from  which  the  auctioneer 
roused  them  with  difficulty. 

It  was  not  his  fault ;  the  fault  was  with  the  material, 
or  rather,  with  the  quantity  of  it.  An  auction  sale,  if 
it  is  to  be  successful,  must  have  variety,  so  that  vari- 
ous tastes  may  be  gratified ;  only  when  the  items  are 
of  very  great  value,  can  interest  in  one  subject  be 
sustained  for  several  hundred  numbers ;  and  so,  after 
a  few  important  first  editions  and  manuscripts  had 
been  knocked  down  at  good  prices,  all  enthusiasm 


WALT  WHITMAN 

From  a  hitherto  unpublished  photograph 


WALT  WHITMAN  141 

disappeared,  and  we  sat  through  the  sale  more  from 
force  of  habit  than  anything  else. 

The  time  was,  in  Philadelphia,  when  anyone  of  any 
literary  taste  whatever  affected  to  know  Walt  Whit- 
man personally.  He  was  an  easy  man  to  know,  and 
commonplace  people  —  and  others  —  buzzed  about 
him  like  flies  and  called  him  "Walt."  Much  has  been 
written  about  him;  Dr.  Platt  himself  had  perpe- 
trated —  the  word  is  his  own  —  a  short  and  excellent 
life  of  him ;  and  among  other  such  Whitman  material, 
Horace  Traubel  brought  out  three  volumes  of  notes, 
-"Timber,"  it  might  well  be  called,—  " With  Walt 
WThitman  in  Camden,"  which  will  be  invaluable  when 
the  final  life  of  Whitman  comes  to  be  written ;  for  we 
are  yet  too  near  him  in  time,  and  we  in  Philadelphia 
are  too  near  him  geographically,  to  view  him  in 
proper  perspective.  His  followers  are  going  rapidly 
now ;  Traubel,  one  of  the  last  and  most  loyal  of  them, 
died  only  a  few  weeks  ago;  and  a  new  generation, 
which  knew  not  WTiitman  in  the  flesh,  has  hardly  yet 
come  into  being.  For  many  years  he  was  a  pictur- 
esque figure  in  our  streets;  everyone  knew  him  by 
sight  and  regarded  him  with  respectful,  if  somewhat 
amused,  curiosity. 

But  he  would  be  a  rash  prophet  who  should  declare 
that  Whitman  is  "outmoded,"  to  use  a  word  coined 
by  Max  Beerbohm.  Rather,  he  has  not  yet  come  into 
his  own.  He  may  yet  be  regarded  in  this  country  as 
he  is  in  England,  as  our  one  great  seer.  My  own  guess 
is  that  he  will  be.  The  voice  of  a  foreigner  is  the  voice 
of  posterity.  Listen  to  what  such  a  one,  Holbrook 


142  WALT  WHITMAN 

Jackson, —  if  an  Englishman  may  be  called  a  for- 
eigner,—  says  of  him :  — 

"The  great  poet  of  the  future  will  neither  be  clas- 
sic nor  romantic,  materialist  nor  spiritualist.  He  will 
have  nothing  to  do  with  rhymes  and  metres,  or  with 
pretty  allusions  to  mythological  gods  and  goddesses, 
which  have  for  so  long  been  so  great  a  part  of  the 
media  of  the  poets  of  Europe.  All  these  have  the 
taint  of  caste  and  convention,  social  distinctions, 
monasticism,  and  ecclesiasticism,  of  which  Whitman 
is  the  direct  antithesis.  Therefore,  he  makes  his  songs 
akin  to  the  rugged  life  of  America,  nearer  to  earth, 
nearer  to  the  quickness  of  things  than  that  of  Europe 
ever  can  be."  And  again  he  says  :  "If  I  were  asked  to 
name  the  most  national  product  of  American  thought, 
something  more  national  than  the  Declaration  of 
Independence,  more  characteristic  than  Abraham 
Lincoln,  more  individual  than  Emerson,  and  more 
Western  than  Mark  Twain,  I  should  name  Walt 
Whitman.  Of  all  American  writings,  his  are  the  most 
native." 

For  myself,  so  far  as  I  am  aware;  I  have  only  one 
prejudice,  and  that  is  a  lifelong  aversion  to  the  na- 
tion that  attempted  the  destruction  of  England,  and 
by  so  doing  committed  suicide;  to  other  things  I 
bring  an  open  mind  —  a  small  mind  if  you  will,  but 
open.  Charles  Lamb  expressed  the  same  idea  in  four 
words:  "I  have  no  repugnances."  It  was,  therefore, 
the  lack  of  repugnance  rather  than  admiration  for 
Walt  WThitman  which  led  me  to  acquiesce  when  it 
was  suggested  that  I  should  assist  in  an  undertaking 


WALT  WHITMAN  143 

to  commemorate  the  centenary  of  his  birth.  Poetry 
is,  with  me,  a  thing  of  choice,  a  luxury  rather  than  a 
necessity,  and  I  own  to  a  preference  for  the  poetry 
of  Herrick,  say,  over  that  of  Walt  Whitman  "  sound- 
ing his  barbaric  yawp  over  the  roof  of  the  world," 
and  in  America's  name  "raising  high  the  perpendic- 
ular hand"  in  a  salut  au  monde.  But  I  agreed  to  go 
along  when,  after  a  conference,  it  was  decided  that 
a  bronze  medal  should  be  cast  under  the  aegis  of  the 
Franklin  Inn  Club  of  Philadelphia,  and  that  Dr.  R. 
Tait  McKenzie  should  make  the  design.  The  medal, 
a  round  plaque  five  inches  in  diameter,  was  greatly 
admired,  and  the  number  of  subscribers  was  very 
gratifying  and  testified  —  to  what :  an  increasing  in- 
terest in  Whitman  or  an  appreciation  of  the  work  of 
the  medalist  ?  Who  shall  say  ? 

I  received  one  letter,  however,  from  an  old  friend, 
who  should  have  known  better  than  to  send  me  such 
a  communication.  His  name,  which  I  now  withhold, 
will  be  sent  to  the  curious  upon  the  payment  of  a 
small  fee.  The  letter  reads  :  — 

"I  have  been  assaulted  with  a  proposal  to  sub- 
scribe for  a  medal  of  that  old  vulgarian  Walt  Whit- 
man. It  seems  to  have  your  name  upon  it.  I  shall 
gladly  subscribe  to  anything  that  you  recommend, 
but  when  I  think  of  this  old  four-flusher  and  his  in- 
consequential companions,  who  used  to  hold  forth  in 
the  rear  of  Dooner's  saloon,  where  he  always  drank 
and  never  paid,  my  heart  goes  out  to  you  as  a  gen- 
erous and  Christian  gentleman.  Personally,  I  would 
not  give  the  best  line  that  he  wrote  house-room  in  a 


144  WALT  WHITMAN 

stable.  The  medal  itself  looks  like  a  very  genial  rep- 
resentation of  Boreas,  and  the  artist  deserves  great 
credit  for  making  such  an  attractive  affair  of  such  a 
miserable  subject.  Yours  affectionately." 

So  it  would  appear  that  there  are  still  differences 
of  opinion  in  regard  to  Whitman,  and  it  seemed  wise 
for  me,  as  in  some  measure  the  sponsor  of  the  Frank- 
lin Inn  Medal,  to  brush  the  dust  from  my  dozen 
volumes  or  so  of  the  Good  Gray  Poet,  and  re- 
acquaint  myself  with  his  work.  My  opinion  of  him 
can  be  summed  up  in  a  sentence.  Whitman  was  a 
poet  only  in  the  sense  that  he  was  a  prophet.  He  was 
a  man  without  taste,  and  he  had  no  power  of  selec- 
tion. He  celebrated  himself  in  the  first  line  he  ever 
published,  and  he  continued  to  do  so  throughout  his 
life.  He  has  some  noble  thoughts,  but  they  are 
thoughts  which  do  not  bear  transportation;  that  is 
to  say,  they  do  not  pass  current.  One  does  not  quote 
WTiitman.  His  admirers  speak  of  him  as  "spacious." 
I  should  rather  say,  diffuse. 

I  am  reminded  of  the  story  of  the  man  who,  being 
asked  the  name  of  his  favorite  poet,  replied,  "Words- 
worth. Wordsworth  without  a  doubt.  I  keep  a 
volume  of  him  by  my  bedside  and  when  I  am  restless 
and  cannot  sleep,  I  take  up  the  'Excursion'  and  am 
soon  in  a  profound  slumber."  If  Whitman's  poetry 
lacks  the  fine  soporific  qualities  of  Wordsworth,  it  is 
equally  deficient  in  that  exquisite  aptness  of  word 
and  phrase  which  we  so  greatly  admire  in  those  poets 
who  have  so  permanently  enriched  our  language. 
Nor  of  humor  has  he  a  single  trace.  One  could  have 


WALT  WHITMAN  145 

told  Whitman  that  he  was  greater  than  Shakespeare 
and  he  would  have  turned  never  a  hair  —  and  he 
could  have  turned  many.  No  rhyming  dictionary 
was  part  of  his  literary  outfit ;  on  the  other  hand,  he 
must  have  written  with  a  gazetteer  at  his  elbow. 
Listen :  — 

I  see  the  cities  of  the  earth  and  make  myself  at  random  a  part  of 

them, 

I  am  a  real  Parisian, 

I  am  a  habitant  of  Vienna,  St.  Petersburg,  Berlin,  Constantinople, 
I  am  of  Adelaide,  Sydney,  Melbourne, 
I  am  of  London,  Manchester,  Bristol,  Edinburgh,  Limerick, 
I  am  of  Madrid,  Cadiz,  Barcelona,  Oporto,  Lyons,  Brussels, 

Berne,  Frankfort,  Stuttgart,  Turin,  Florence, 
I  belong  in  Moscow,  Cracow,  Warsaw,  or  northward  in  Chris- 

tiania  or  Stockholm,  or  in  Siberian  Irkutsk,  or  in  some  street 

in  Iceland, 
I  descend  upon  all  those  cities,  and  rise  from  them  again. 

It  reads  like  an  unskillful  parody,  but  it  is  not ;  it  is 
genuine  Whitman.  WTiat  he  means  to  say  is  that  he 
is  universal ;  but  think  how  he  has  imposed  upon  the 
type-setter,  to  say  nothing  of  the  reader. 

Whitman  during  the  later  years  of  his  life  lived  in 
Camden  —  a  depressing  city,  full  of  commonplace 
people  whom  he  affected  to  love ;  and  only  a  genius 
could  so  write  of  Camden  as  to  make  one  wish  to  go 
there,  even  for  an  hour.  It  expresses  to  me  our  civil- 
ization at  its  very  worst.  It  is  an  ugly  and  neglected 
town,  as,  unhappily,  so  many  of  our  towns  are.  The 
wretched  little  house  in  which  Whitman  lived,  and 
where  he  died,  328  Mickel  Street,  is  now  a  filthy 
Italian  tenement.  It  is  interesting  only  in  PenneU's 


146  WALT  WHITMAN 

charming  little  etching  of  it,  which  George  Gras- 
burger,  the  bookseller,  generously  gave  me  one  day 
when  I  dropped  in  upon  him.  I  met  the  poet 
several  times  —  once  at  a  meeting  of  the  Contem- 
porary Club,  shortly  before  his  death,  at  which  he 
read  some  of  his  poems;  and  I  went  to  his  funeral, 
chiefly  because  I  wanted  to  hear  Robert  G.  Ingersoll 
deliver  an  oration  at  his  grave,  and  was  much  dis- 
appointed thereat.  Oratory  always  leaves  me  cold. 
So  when  Ingersoll  summoned  "  the  silent  sisters  of  the 
night  to  draw  with  rosy  fingers  the  damask  curtains 
of  the  dawn,"  I  reached  for  my  hat  and  crept  outside 
the  tent,  which  had  been  erected  over  the  grave  in 
the  event  of  bad  weather.  "I  felt  as  if  I  had  been 
at  the  entombment  of  Christ,"  wrote  one  of  his  dis- 
ciples, who  attended  the  funeral.  I  had  no  such  feel- 
ing. Whitman's  funeral  was  a  great  event  in  Cam- 
den,  where  little  of  interest  happens.  The  large  tent 
and  the  crowd  suggested  to  me  a  circus,  and  this  im- 
pression was  heightened  by  the  general  confusion 
and  by  boys  in  attendance  selling  peanuts. 

Not  long  before  his  death,  I  wrote  to  him  that  I 
would  like  to  buy  several  autographed  copies  of  "The 
Leaves  of  Grass,"  and  that  I  could  call  for  them  on 
any  day  and  hour  he  might  name.  In  reply  I  re- 
ceived a  note  from  him,  telling  me  how  to  come.  I 
followed  his  instructions  and  received  the  volumes. 
At  that  time  he  appeared  to  be  relying  upon  the  sale 
of  his  poems  for  his  livelihood,  and  the  ten  dollars  I 
then  spent  was,  for  me,  a  very  considerable  sum.  I 
say  "appeared,"  for,  after  his  death,  it  developed 


.irrf^?  -  '' Jt     I  !  >   Tt"_sr  —  — -  "~  * 

ill 


55  =3 

W  a 

Q  | 

S  ^ 

<  1 

O  « 


s  s 


WALT  WHITMAN  147 

that,  while  he  was  allowing  his  admirers  to  pass  the 
hat  in  his  behalf,  he  was  storing  up  a  considerable 
sum  for  the  handsome  and  dignified  tomb  of  his  own 
design  erected  in  Harleigh  Cemetery. 

Until  I  attended  the  sale  of  Dr.  Buck's  collection, 
one  hundred  and  forty-seven  items  in  all,  I  had  no 
idea  how  extensive  the  Whitman  literature  is.  I  had 
long  wanted  a  first  edition  of  the  "Leaves  of  Grass"  ; 
the  centenary  of  Whitman's  birth  brought  several 
copies  to  the  surface.  Dobell,  the  English  book- 
seller, catalogued  a  copy  in  cloth  for  eighteen  guineas, 
which  I  at  once  cabled  for;  but  the  book  had  been 
sold  by  the  time  my  cable  arrived.  Meanwhile,  I 
had  declined  a  copy  offered  me  by  a  New  York  dealer 
for  one  hundred  and  twenty-five  dollars.  The  Buck 
sale  gave  me  the  opportunity  I  wanted,  and  I  secured 
a  copy. 

The  story  of  the  publication  of  the  first  edition  of 
the  "Leaves  of  Grass"  is  well  told  in  the  admirable 
reprint,  which  has  just  been  brought  out  by  Thomas 
Bird  Mosher  of  Portland,  Maine,  in  which  under- 
taking my  friend  William  Francis  Gable  of  Altoona, 
Pennsylvania,  has  had  an  important  part.  From 
him  I  received  a  copy  with  an  inscription  which  makes 
it  very  dear  to  me. 

Camerado,  this  is  no  book. 

Who  touches  this,  touches  a  man. 

Doubtless  it  is  so.  His  one  enduring  work  is  "  Leaves 
of  Grass,"  the  first  edition  of  which  was  published  in 
1855  ;  and  he  kept  adding  to  it  and  subtracting  from 
it —  rather  adding  than  subtracting  —  all  his  life.  If 


148 


WALT  WHITMAN 


Leaves 


G 


S  S  i 


poets — and  others — would  leave  their  work  alone 
after  they  have  finished  it,  the  task  of  the  book- 
collector  would  be  much  simplified.  With  the  excep- 
tion of  the  first,  all  the  editions  of  the  "Leaves"  pub- 
lished during  the  poet's  life-time  were  both  ugly  and 

clumsy.  Bliss  Perry 
truly  says  that  the 
wide  page  of  the  first 
edition  gave  to  Whit- 
man's long  lines  a  dig- 
nity not  approached 
in  any  subsequent 
issue.  This  is  the  edi- 
tion for  which  Whit- 
man himself  set  the 
type,  in  the  printing- 
house  of  the  Brothers 
Rome,  in  Brooklyn. 
Neither  the  name  of 
the  author  nor  that 
of  any  publisher  is 
given  on  the  title- 
page,  which  reads 
simply :  "  Leaves  of 
Grass.  Brooklyn,  New  York :  1855."  Opposite  the 
title-page  is  a  steel  engraving  of  the  author,  and  the 
copyright  notice  reads,  "By  Walter  Whitman."  Its 
success,  or  lack  of  success,  was  exactly  what  might 
have  been  expected;  notwithstanding  the  fact  that 
the  book  was  freely  put  out  "on  sale"  and  copies  sent 
to  all  the  leading  magazines  and  newspapers,  very 


Brooklyn,     New    York  I 
1855. 


WALT  WHITMAN  149 

few  were  actually  sold.  In  his  later  days  Whitman 
used  to  talk  of  the  one  man  who  actually  bought  a 
copy  of  the  book,  not  attempting  to  reconcile  this 
statement  with  the  one  made  in  his  open  letter  to 
Emerson,  in  the  second  edition,  of  which  he  said, 
"I  printed  a  thousand  copies"  (of  the  first  edition) 
"and  they  readily  sold." 

Mr.  Mosher  says,  "Of  the  thousand  copies  of  the 
1855  edition,  some  were  given  away ;  most  of  them 
were  lost,  abandoned,  or  destroyed."  The  whole 
edition  was  not  bound  at  once ;  those  first  bound  had 
the  words  "Leaves  of  Grass"  stamped  in  gold  on  both 
sides  and  back  of  the  old  fashioned  dark-green  cloth, 
three  gold  lines  forming  a  border  around  the  front 
and  back  of  the  cover.  Moreover,  these  had  gilt 
edges,  whereas  in  those  subsequently  bound  the  gilt 
was  entirely  omitted,  except  on  the  front  cover;  all 
the  rest  of  the  stamping  was  "blind,"  and  the  gilt 
edges  also  were  omitted,  doubtless  to  save  expense. 
But  the  important  difference  between  the  first  and 
second  issue  of  the  first  edition  is  the  inclusion  in  the 
latter  of  eight  pages  of  press  notices,  set  in  small  type 
in  double  column  —  most  of  them,  it  is  believed, 
written  by  the  poet  himself. 

Not  discouraged  by  the  failure  of  the  first,  Whit- 
man at  once  proceeded  with  the  publication  of  a 
second  edition.  He  had  sent  Emerson  a  first  edition 
of  the  "Leaves,"  and  was  much  pleased  to  receive 
from  him  a  letter  in  which,  among  other  things,  he 
had  said,  "I  greet  you  at  the  beginning  of  a  great 
career."  Whitman  had  a  keen  advertising  sense  in 


150  WALT  WHITMAN 

his  early  days, —  indeed,  it  never  deserted  him, —  and 
he  immediately  seized  upon  these  words  and  stamped 
them  in  large  letters  of  gold  on  the  back  of  his  second 
edition.  This  somewhat  disconcerted  the  Concord 
Sage,  all  the  more  that  the  book  had  upon  its  first 
appearance  been  greeted  with  a  loud  chorus  of  abuse 
in  which  the  words,  "vulgarity,"  "filth,"  "muck," 
"obscenity,"  "nonsense,"  etc.,  were  distinctly  heard. 
A  few  favorable  notices,  indeed,  there  were,  notably 
one  by  Edward  Everett  Hale ;  but  most  of  the  criti- 
cisms, except  those  which  Whitman  was  accused  of 
writing  himself,  dealt  with  the  work  severely. 

If  the  first  edition  of  the  "Leaves"  was  unusually 
thin,  the  second  edition,  which  appeared  the  year 
following,  was  unusually  fat  and  clumsy.  It  bore, 
as  has  been  said,  by  way  of  a  slogan,  the  sentence 
from  Emerson's  letter.  It  is  the  cloth  binding,  there- 
fore, of  the  second  edition,  which  gives  it  its  value ; 
it  is  quite  as  rare  as  the  first,  and  like  that  edition,  it 
has  no  publisher 's  name,  Messrs.  Fowler  and  Wells, 
"Phrenologists  and  Publishers,"  who  brought  it  out, 
preferring  not  to  have  their  name  associated  with  the 
venture,  as  they  had  originally  intended.  Indeed, 
until  quite  recently,  when  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co. 
took  over  the  copyright  of  all  Whitman's  publica- 
tions, he  never  had  a  first-class  publisher.  Tenny- 
son has  been  accused  of  driving  a  hard  bargain  with 
his  publishers.  Whitman,  it  may  be  presumed,  did 
the  same.  Most  of  the  editions  of  the  "Leaves"  are 
poorly  printed  on  cheap  paper,  and  the  price  of  five 
dollars  for  several  of  them  was  justified  only  by  the 


WALT  WHITMAN  151 

fact  that  he,  as  he  said,  "handled"  them  himself  and 
autographed  them  for  purchasers.  I  have  several 
such  copies,  one  as  large  and  clumsy  as  a  good-sized 
dictionary,  another  bound  in  leather,  with  a  pocket 
and  flap,  looking  for  all  the  world  like  an  engineer's 
handbook. 

Thayer  and  Eldridge  of  Boston  were  the  first  pub- 
lishers to  put  their  name  to  the  "Leaves."  Their 
edition,  being  the  third,  was  published  in  1860-61. 
Shortly  afterwards  the  war  broke  out,  and  Whitman 
disappears;  he  did  not  enlist, —  "for  the  eighteen 
months  there  is  practically  no  word  of  him," — but 
that  he  was  deeply  moved  by  the  struggle  between 
the  North  and  South,  we  may  believe;  and  we 
next  hear  of  him  in  Washington,  nursing  back  to  life 
and  health  soldiers  from  either  army.  Nothing  is 
more  beautiful  and  touching  than  this  episode  in 
Whitman's  life ;  and  one  of  his  tiny  note-books,  which 
he  carried  with  him  when  he  went  about  the  hospitals 
as  wound-dresser,  was  sold  recently  at  auction  in 
New  York  for  a  high  price.  Bibliographically,  WTiit- 
man  has  not  yet  come  into  his  own ;  but  he  is  coming, 
and  there  will  be  great  advances  in  Whitmaniana 
in  the  next  few  years,  or  my  judgment  is  at  fault. 

I  secured  a  few  months  ago  a  long,  clearly  written 
manuscript,  signed  and  dated,  in  which  Whitman 
gave  a  succinct  account  of  the  Thayer  and  Eldridge 
volume.  Unlike  most  of  Whitman's  manuscripts, 
it  is  practically  free  from  erasures  and  corrections.  I 
believe  it  has  never  been  printed  before,  and  for  this 
reason  I  quote  it  verbatim. 


152  WALT  WHITMAN 

Nov.  26,  1880. 

R.  Worthington,  770  Broadway,  New  York  about  a 
year  ago  bo't  at  auction  the  electrotype  plates  (456  pages) 
of  the  1860 -'61  edition  of  my  book  Leaves  of  Grass  — 
plates  originally  made  by  a  young  firm  Thayer  &  Eldridge 
under  my  supervision  there  and  then  in  Boston,  (in  the 
Spring  1860,  on  an  agreement  running  five  years.)  A 
small  edition  was  printed  and  issued  at  the  time,  but  in 
six  months  or  thereabout  Thayer  &  Eldridge  failed,  and 
these  plates  were  stored  away  and  nothing  further  done 
till  about  a  year  ago  (latter  part  of  1879)  they  were  put 
up  in  N.  Y.  City  by  Leavitt,  auctioneer,  and  bought  in 
by  said  Worthington.  (Leavitt  before  putting  them  up, 
wrote  to  me  offering  the  plates  for  sale.  I  wrote  back  that 
said  plates  were  worthless,  being  superseded  by  a  larger 
&  different  edition  —  that  I  could  not  use  them,  the  1860 
ones,  myself,  nor  would  I  allow  them  to  be  used  by  any 
one  else  —  I  being  the  sole  owner  of  the  copyright.)  \ 

However,  it  seems  Leavitt  did  auction  them  &  Worth- 
ington bo 't  them  (I  suppose  for  a  mere  song)  —  W.  then 
wrote  to  me  offering  $250.  if  I  would  add  something  to  the 
text  &  authenticate  the  plates  to  be  published  in  a  book 
by  him.  I  wrote  back  (I  was  in  St.  Louis  at  the  time, 
helpless,  sick)  thanking  him  for  the  offer,  regretting  he  had 
purchased  the  plates. 

Then  &  since  I  thought  the  matter  had  dropt.  But  I 
have  to  add  that  about  September  1880  (I  was  in  London, 
Canada  at  the  time)  I  wrote  to  Worthington  referring  to 
his  previous  offer  then  declined  by  me,  and  asking  whether 
he  still  had  the  plates  &  was  disposed  to  make  the  same 
offer ;  to  which  I  received  no  answer.  I  wrote  a  second 
time ;  and  again  no  answer. 

I  supposed  the  whole  thing  dropt  &  nothing  done,  but 
within  a  week  past  I  learn  that  Worthington  has  been 
slyly  printing  and  selling  the  volume  of  Leaves  of  Grass 


WALT  WHITMAN  153 

from  those  plates  (must  have  commenced  early  in  1880) 
and  is  now  printing  and  selling  it.  On  Nov.  22,  1880,  I 
found  the  book  (printed  from  those  plates)  at  Porter  & 
Coates*  store,  Cor.  9th  &  Chestnut  Sts.,  Philadelphia. 
P  &  C  told  me  they  procured  it  from  Worthington  &  had 
been  so  procuring  it  off  and  on  for  nearly  a  year. 

First,  I  want  Worthington  effectually  stopt  from  issu- 
ing the  book.  Second,  I  want  my  royalty  for  all  he  has 
sold,  (though  I  have  no  idea  of  ever  getting  a  cent). 
Third,  I  want  W.  taken  hold  of,  if  possible,  on  criminal 
proceeding. 

I  am  the  sole  owner  of  the  copyright  &  I  think  my  copy- 
right papers  are  all  complete  —  I  publish  and  sell  the  book 
myself  —  it  is  my  sole  means  of  living  —  what  Worthing- 
ton has  done  has  already  been  a  serious  detriment  to  me. 
Mr.  Eldridge  (of  the  Boston  firm  alluded  to)  is  accessible 
in  Washington,  D.  C.  —  will  corroborate  first  parts  of  the 
foregoing —  (is  my  friend). 

WALT  WHITMAN,  431  Stevens  Street, 

Camden,  New  Jersey. 

Later  editions  are  largely  without  bibliographical 
interest ;  and  with  the  poems  that  had  their  origin 
in  the  war  and  in  Lincoln,  Whitman's  work  was  done. 
His  "Specimen  Days"  and  "November  Boughs" 
and  the  rest  have  never  found  the  readers  they  de- 
serve, except  warm  admirers  and  students;  they 
are,  and  will  probably  remain,  neglected. 

Leaving  Washington,  he  drifted  to  Camden,  where 
his  mother  lived  and  where  she  died.  After  her 
death,  he  "just  staid  on."  The  New  York  "Sun"  — 
my  favorite  newspaper  —  once  described  Camden  as 
the  refuge  of  those  who  were  in  doubt,  debt,  or  de- 
spair. It  seems  pertinent  to  ask  why  Hoboken  has 


154  WALT  WHITMAN 

been  overlooked?  Whitman  was  not  in  doubt  — 
never  for  a  moment :  he  was  a  cocksure  person ;  he 
was  not  in  debt,  his  friends  saw  to  that ;  nor  was  he 
in  despair.  He  "loafed  and  invited  his  soul."  In 
the  disorder  of  his  tiny  sitting-room  in  the  Mickel 
Street  house,  he  received  his  friends — who  were  loyal 
to  him  to  the  last — and  in  his  dogmatic  and  rather 
vulgar  way  laid  down  the  law  to  his  commonplace 
retainers. 

One  curious  incident  in  his  life  came  fully  to  light 
only  when  Thomas  B.  Harned,  one  of  his  literary 
executors,  published  a  few  years  ago  "The  Letters  of 
Anne  Gilchrist  to  Walt  Whitman."  They  are  re- 
markable not  so  much  for  what  they  reveal  as  for 
what  they  suggest ;  indeed,  considering  the  ages  and 
respective  positions  of  the  writer  and  the  recipient, 
they  are  rather  bewildering. 

Whitman  had  early  found  his  greatest  admirers, 
not  in  the  crowded  streets  of  New  York  and  Phila- 
delphia, but  in  England.  It  may  be  that  the  rough, 
the  rather  uncouth  sentiments  of  democracy  acted 
like  a  tonic  upon  those  accustomed  to  the  somewhat 
vitiated  atmosphere  of  London  drawing-rooms  and 
Chelsea  studios.  Indeed,  if  the  beauty  of  anything 
is  increased  by  distance,  democracy  is  that  thing. 
Swinburne  and  the  two  Rossettis  early  professed 
allegiance  to  Whitman,  and  through  them  and  Madox 
Brown,  Mrs.  Gilchrist  became  acquainted  with  his 
work.  William  Michael  Rossetti  had  selected  and 
edited  an  edition  of  the  "Leaves/'  and  to  him  she 
writes :  "  Since  I  have  had  it,  I  can  read  no  other 


WALT  WHITMAN  155 

book;  it  holds  me  entirely  spellbound,  and  I  go 
through  it  again  and  again  with  deepening  delight 
and  wonder." 

To  which  Rossetti  replies :  "That  glorious  man, 
Walt  Whitman,  will  one  day  be  known  as  one  of  the 
greatest  of  the  sons  of  earth,  a  few  steps  below  Shake- 
speare on  the  throne  of  immortality." 

Mrs.  Gilchrist  was  a  widow  of  mature  years,  the 
mother  of  four  children,  when  she  fell  under  the  spell 
of  Whitman's  verbal  fascination.  Perhaps  more 
than  anyone  else,  she,  in  her  "Estimate  of  Walt 
Wliitman,"  —  and  an  excellent  and  judicial  estimate 
it  is, —  printed  in  the  "Radical"  for  May,  1870, 
voiced  the  belief  generally  held  in  England  as  to  the 
value  of  his  work.  Praise  was  ever  sweet  to  Whit- 
man ;  it  could  not  be  too  sweet.  Few  souls  have  the 
rugged  strength  of  character  of  Sam  Johnson,  who 
once  said  to  a  lady  who  was  buttering  him,  "Con- 
sider, madame,  what  your  flattery  is  worth  before 
you  choke  me  to  death  with  it."  The  correspon- 
dence, which  began  as  a  result  of  her  public  apprecia- 
tion of  Whitman,  continued  to  grow  more  personal 
and  impassioned  until,  in  spite  of  his  efforts  to  pre- 
vent it,  Mrs.  Gilchrist  announced  that  she  was  com- 
ing to  this  country,  in  order  that  she  might  be  near 
the  object  of  her  passion.  It  was  her  wish  to  be  "full 
of  sweet  comfort  to  her  beloved's  soul  and  body 
through  life,  through  and  after  death."  "I  do  not 
approve!"  screamed  Whitman  across  the  Atlantic; 
but  to  no  avail;  and  the  lady,  being  then  a  grand- 
mother and  approaching  her  fiftieth  year,  with  her 


156  WALT  WHITMAN 

household  impedimenta  and  several  children,  took 
passage  for  Philadelphia  on  August  30,  1876. 

It  was  the  year  of  the  Centennial  Exposition,  and 
Philadelphia  was  overcrowded  and  was  experiencing 
such  heat  as  is  unusual  even  in  our  torrid  town. 
Nevertheless,  the  lady  came  and  stayed.  For  al- 
most two  years,  from  a  commonplace  house  in  a 
commonplace  section  of  our  city,  1929  North  Twenty- 
second  Street,  the  lady  besought  the  poet  unsuccess- 
fully. She  then  raised  the  siege  and,  after  a  little, 
sailed  away. 

Whitman  carried  himself  through  this  trying  ordeal 
rather  as  a  gentleman  than  as  a  poet;  undoubtedly 
age  had  something  to  do  with  it.  He  was  growing 
old,  was  in  poor  health,  and  in  no  humor  to  take  part 
in  such  an  intrigue  as  would  have  delighted  him  at  an 
earlier  period  in  his  career.  He  became  a  courteous, 
constant,  and  attentive  visitor  at  Mrs.  Gilchrist's 
house,  and  her  affection  for  and  interest  in  him  did 
not  lessen  with  propinquity.  Her  letters  to  him 
after  their  parting  are  respectful  and  affectionate. 
When,  after  her  death,  her  son  Herbert,  while  pre- 
paring the  biography  of  his  mother,  asked  to  see  the 
letters,  Whitman  with  proper  delicacy  declined.  He 
said:  "I  do  not  know  that  I  can  furnish  any  good 
reason,  but  I  feel  to  keep  these  utterances  exclusively 
to  myself;  but  I  cannot  let  your  book  go  to  press 
without  at  least  saying  and  wishing  to  put  it  on  record 
that,  among  the  perfect  women  I  have  met,  I  have 
known  none  more  perfect  in  every  relation  than  my 
dear,  dear  friend,  Anne  Gilchrist." 


WALT  WHITMAN  157 

I  wish  that  he  had  destroyed  the  letters.  Someone 
has  said  that  biographies  are  of  three  sorts :  biog- 
raphies, autobiographies,  and  ought-not-to-be-ogra- 
phies.  Love-letters  it  seems  to  me  are  of  this  latter 
kind.  Only  when  they  are  as  wonderful  and  beau- 
tiful as  those  of  Heloise  to  Abelard,  and  when  they 
have  been  purified,  as  it  were,  by  time,  can  they  be 
read  without  a  pitying  or  a  scornful  smile.  I  once, 
years  ago  and  absentmindedly,  dropped  into  a  letter- 
box a  railway  ticket  and  my  sleeping-car  reservation 
for  Chicago,  and  later  sought  to  board  my  train  with 
a  love-letter  as  my  passport.  I  learned  something 
at  that  time  which  has  been  of  use  to  me  since. 

From  contemplation  one  may  become  wise,  but 
knowledge  comes  only  by  study.  It  was  the  future 
rather  than  the  past  that  interested  Whitman,  and 
he  prophesied  in  a  large  and  ample  way,  carefully 
avoiding  details.  The  names  of  the  world's  great 
men  came  glibly  to  his  tongue  as  needed,  but  I 
suspect  that  he  knew  little  of  them  besides.  His 
literary  judgments  and  pronouncements  were  fre- 
quently foolish.  Listen  to  this  nugget  of  criticism 
which  especially  offends  me :  "  We  are  no  admirer  of 
such  characters  as  Dr.  Johnson.  He  was  a  sour, 
malicious,  egotistical  man.  He  was  a  sycophant  of 
power  and  rank,  withal ;  his  biographer  narrates  that 
he  *  always  spoke  with  rough  contempt  of  popular 
liberty.'  His  head  was  educated  to  the  point  of  plus ; 
but  for  his  heart  might  still  more  unquestionably 
stand  the  sign  minus.  He  insulted  his  equals  .  .  . 
and  tyrannized  over  his  inferiors.  He  fawned  upon 


158  WALT  WHITMAN 

his  superiors,  and,  of  course,  loved  to  be  fawned  upon 
himself.  .  .  .  Nor  were  the  freaks  of  this  man  the 
mere  '  eccentricities  of  genius ' ;  they  were  probably 
the  faults  of  a  vile,  low  nature.  His  soul  was  a  bad 
one." 

As  has  been  truly  said,  Whitman  requires  to  be  for- 
given more  generously  than  any  other  great  writer. 
He  does,  indeed. 

Whitman  had  his  Boswell  in  the  person  of  Horace 
Traubel,  whom  we  all  greatly  respected  and  admired. 
Traubel  had  at  least  a  trace  of  what  Whitman  lacked 
entirely,  namely,  a  sense  of  humor.  I  once  called  him 
an  inspired  lead-pencil  and  he  took  no  offense;  nor 
was  any  intended;  I  had  in  mind  his  biographical 
work,  "With  Walt  Whitman  in  Camden,"  rather 
than  his  poems  (?)  in  his  "Conservator."  I  re- 
member that  he  used  to  publish  at  the  head  of  one  of 
his  columns  in  that  paper  a  criticism:  "Horace  is 
certainly  a  lovely  fellow ;  but  there  is  no  use  talking, 
he  writes  rotten  poetry."  I  entirely  agree.  Trau- 
bel's  devotion  to  his  hero  much  resembled  Boswell's 
to  Johnson.  This  misled  people  into  likening  Whit- 
man to  the  great  Cham  of  Literature,  whom  he  re- 
sembled just  as  little  as  Camden  resembles  London. 
Dr.  Johnson  was  the  intimate  friend  of  the  most  dis- 
tinguished men  and  women  of  his  time.  In  the 
greatest  city  of  the  world  he  was  its  dominating 
literary  figure. 

From  time  to  time  Whitman  had  important 
visitors  from  abroad,  but  distinguished  men  and 
women  in  this  country  left  him  largely  alone.  WTtien 


WALT  WHITMAN  159 

the  second  centenary  of  his  birth  rolls  around,  I  ven- 
ture to  prophesy  that  Whitman  will  be  more  truly 
honored  than  he  was  at  the  meeting  at  the  Elks' 
Hall  in  Camden  on  the  one  hundredth  anniversary 
of  his  birth. 


IX 

"20" 

WE  were  in  London, —  a  maiden  uncle  and  a  pre- 
sumably maiden  aunt  and  I, —  and  I  was  showing  my 
relatives  the  town,  which  I  knew  well,  with  a  fine  air 
of  proprietorship.  It  happened  years  ago.  There 
were  omnibuses  in  those  days  —  not  huge,  self-pro- 
pelled motor-busses,  driven  at  a  breakneck  pace 
through  the  crowded  streets,  but  gayly  painted,  lazy, 
rotund  coaches,  like  huge  beetles,  driven  by  men  who 
bore  a  strong  family  resemblance  to  the  elder  Weller. 

With  my  party  I  had  been  climbing  from  the  top 
of  a  bus  going  east  to  the  top  of  another  going  west, 
when  the  suggestion  was  made  that  the  next  sight 
should  be  a  bit  of  the  roast  beef  of  Old  England.  We 
were- for  a  moment  off  the  beaten  track  of  the  busses, 
and  the  only  vehicle  in  sight  was  a  disreputable-look- 
ing four-wheel  cab,  usually  denominated  a  "growler," 
no  doubt  from  the  character  of  the  driver.  Rather 
against  my  judgment,  we  entered  it  and  I  gave  the 
order,  "Simpson's,  in  the  Strand."  The  driver 
roused  himself  and  his  beast,  and  we  started;  but 
we  had  gone  only  a  short  distance  when,  in  some  inex- 
plicable way,  the  man,  who  was  subsequently  dis- 
covered to  be  drunk,  locked  the  wheels  of  the  cab  in 
attempting  to  make  a  sharp  turn,  and  completely 
upset  the  ramshackle  vehicle.  Within,  there  was 


A  LONDON  "GROWLER,"  DISSATISFIED  WITH  HIS  FARE 
From  a  water-color  in  the  possession  of  the  author 


"20"  161 

great  confusion.  Just  how  it  happened  I  never  knew, 
but  in  some  way  my  foot  got  outside  the  broken  win- 
dow ;  the  horse  moved ;  I  heard  something  snap,  felt 
a  sharp  pain,  and  knew  that  my  leg  was  broken. 

A  crowd  gathered,  but  the  omnipresent  policeman 
was  on  the  spot  in  a  moment,  and  order  was  quickly 
brought  out  of  confusion.  My  companions  were  un- 
hurt, but  it  was  instantly  realized  that  I  was  in  real 
trouble.  More  policemen  arrived,  numbers  were 
taken,  explanations  demanded  and  attempted;  but 
accidents  happen  in  the  crowded  streets  of  London  at 
the  rate  of  one  a  minute  or  so,  and  the  rules  are  well 
understood.  A  shrill  blast  on  a  whistle  brought  sev- 
eral hansoms  dashing  to  the  scene.  I  had  become  the 
property  of  the  Corporation  of  the  City  of  London  in 
general,  and  of  St.  Bartholomew's  Hospital  in  par- 
ticular. The  custom  is,  when  one  is  hurt  in  the 
streets  of  London,  that  he  is  taken  at  once  to  the 
nearest  hospital.  His  not  to  reason  why:  "it's  an 
'ard,  faast  rule." 

Fortunately,  the  hospital  was  near  at  hand,  and  in  a 
very  few  moments,  I  found  myself  lying  on  a  bench 
in  the  casualty  ward,  writhing  in  agony,  and  sur- 
rounded by  a  crowd  of  young  men  curious  to  know 
how  it  happened.  The  general  opinion,  as  voiced  by 
a  young  cockney,  who  seemed  to  be  in  authority,  was 
that  I  had  had  a  "naasty  one,"  and  that  Mr.  Peter- 
son would  probably  "take  it  hoff  at  the  knee."  It 
was  my  intention  to  expostulate  with  Mr.  Peterson 
when  he  arrived  and  I  hoped  he  would  come  quickly ; 
but  when  he  appeared,  he  seemed  so  intelligent  and 


162  "20" 

sympathetic,  that  I  indulged  myself  in  the  hope  that 
I  and  "it"  would  be  safe  in  his  hands.  The  entrance 
of  a  seriously  injured  man  into  a  London  hospital 
confers  no  distinction  upon  him  —  he  is  regarded,  not 
as  an  individual,  but  simply  as  another  casualty, 
making  six,  or  sixteen,  taken  to  the  operating  room 
that  morning.  My  arrival,  therefore,  was  taken 
quite  as  a  matter  of  course.  A  few  questions  were 
asked  by  a  recorder,  and  as  soon  as  I  had  told  him 
who  I  was,  where  I  lived,  my  age  and  best  friend,  I 
was  picked  up,  placed  upon  a  stretcher,  and  carried 
away,  I  knew  not  whither. 

Within  the  hospital  there  was  neither  surprise, 
confusion,  nor  delay.  They  might  have  been  expect- 
ing me.  Almost  before  I  knew  it,  I  was  being  rapidly 
but  skillfully  undressed.  I  say  undressed,  but  in 
point  of  fact  my  trousers  and  one  shoe  were  being 
removed,  with  the  aid  of  several  pairs  of  shears  in 
skillful  hands.  I  was  curious  to  see  for  myself  the 
extent  of  the  injury  that  seemed  so  interesting  to 
those  about  me,  but  this  was  not  permitted.  Some- 
one ventured  the  opinion,  for  which  I  thanked  him, 
that  as  I  was  young  and  clean,  I  had  more  than  an 
even  chance  to  save  my  leg ;  another  remarked  that 
there  was  no  place  in  the  world  like  "Bart's,"  for 
fractures,  and  that  with  luck  my  wound  might  begin 
to  heal  "by  first  intention." 

Meanwhile  I  divined  rather  than  saw  that  prep- 
arations for  a  serious  operation  were  under  way. 
Nurses  with  ominous-looking  instruments  wrapped 
up  in  towels  made  their  appearance,  and  I  heard  the 


"20"  163 

word  "chloroform"  used  several  times ;  then  a  rubber 
pad  was  put  over  my  face,  I  felt  someone  fumbling 
at  my  wrist  and  I  was  told  to  take  a  deep  breath.  In 
a  moment  I  was  overcome  by  a  sickening  sensation 
occasioned  by  something  sweetish;  I  felt  lifted 
higher,  higher,  higher — until  suddenly  something 
seemed  to  snap  in  my  head,  and  I  awoke,  in  ex- 
quisite pain  and  very  sick  at  the  stomach. 

Several  hours  had  elapsed ;  I  found  myself  quite 
undressed  and  in  a  bed  in  a  large  room  in  which  were 
many  other  beds  similar  to  mine,  most  of  them  occu- 
pied. Leaning  over  me  was  a  white-capped  nurse, 
and  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  was  a  very  kindly-looking 
woman,  a  lady  of  mature  years,  wearing  an  elaborate 
cap,  whom  I  heard  addressed  as  "Sister."  I  had 
lost  my  identity  and  had  become  merely  "20,"  Pit- 
cairn  Ward,  St.  Bartholomew's  Hospital,  London  — 
one  of  the  oldest  and,  as  I  was  to  discover,  one  of  the 
best  hospitals  in  the  world. 

I  was  in  great  agony  and  very  lonely.  Things  had 
happened  with  such  rapidity  that  I  could  scarcely 
realize  how  I  came  to  be  where  I  was.  I  inquired 
for  my  relatives,  and  was  told  that  they  would  "be 
here  presently."  I  asked  for  Dr.  Peterson,  and  was 
told  that  he,  too,  would  be  here  "presently."  From 
the  pain  I  felt  I  made  no  doubt  that  he  had  after  all 
taken  "it"  off  at  the  knee,  as  prophesied. 

"Presently"  I  heard  outside  the  door  a  great 
scuffling  of  feet,  as  of  the  approach  of  a  considerable 
crowd;  then  the  door  opened  and  there  entered  a 
group  of  students,  led  by  an  elderly  and  distinguished- 


164  "20" 

looking  man  who,  visiting  a  row  of  cots  in  turn, 
finally  came  to  mine  and,  without  speaking  to  me, 
took  my  chart  from  a  nurse  and  studied  it  attentively. 
A  moment  later  Mr.  Peterson  came  up  and  explained 
what  he  had  done,  to  all  of  which  the  distinguished 
man,  addressed  as  Mr.  Willett,  listened  attentively, 
expressing  his  satisfaction  and  saying  "exactly" 
several  times. 

Finally,  Mr.  Willett  addressed  the  crowd  gathered 
in  a  semi-circle  about  my  bed.  "The  patient  is  suf- 
fering from  a  compound  comminuted  fracture  of  the 
tibia  and  fibula ;  he  was  fished  out  of  an  overturned 
four-wheeler  just  by  the  Charterhouse  Gate.  Mr. 
Peterson  has  just  performed  an  operation.  He  has 
Here  followed  a  rapid  and  technical  account  of 
what  had  been  done  to  me, —  and  it  seemed  ample, — 
what  complications  might  ensue,  and  what  was  hoped 
for1,  ending  with  congratulations  to  Mr.  Peterson  on 
having  done  a  very  good  job.  "Six  hundred  yards 
of  plaster  bandage,  eh  ?  good,  very  good." 

I  was  in  great  pain  and  too  ill  to  listen  with  much 
attention  to  what  more  he  said.  At  last,  as  an  after- 
thought, Mr.  Willett  again  took  the  chart  from  the 
nurse  and,  glancing  at  it  indifferently  for  a  moment, 
said,  "Ah,  an  American,  eh  ?  "  Then,  turning  to  me 
he  added,  "They've  brought  you  to  the  right  shop 
for  fractures,  my  lad ;  there 's  no  place  in  the  world 
where  you  would  be  better  off  than  just  where  you 
are,  and  Mr.  Peterson  has  made  as  clean  a  job  as  the 
best  surgeon  in" — glancing  at  the  chart  again  — 
"Philadelphia  could  have  done." 


"20'*  165 

"But,  doctor,"  I  piped  (I  did  not  then  know  that 
surgeons  in  England  are  always  addressed  as  Mister), 
"  it 's  not  to  be  forgotten  that  Dr.  Peterson  has  been 
working  on  excellent  American  material.'* 

Mr.  Willett  almost  dropped  the  chart  in  amaze- 
ment and  Sister  told  me  to  "Sh-h,  don't  talk  back." 
Such  a  thing  was  unheard  of,  for  a  poor  devil  lying  on 
a  cot  in  a  great  charity  hospital  of  London  to  bandy 
words  with  one  of  the  greatest  surgeons  in  England. 
Mr.  Willett  was  too  surprised  to  say  anything;  he 
simply  turned  on  his  heel  and  walked  away,  followed 
by  his  students  and  the  Sister,  leaving  the  nurse  to 
tell  me  that  I  must  never,  never  talk  back  to  Mr. 
Willett  again.  "He's  never  to  be  spoke  to  'nless  he 
aasks  a  question." 

At  half -past  five  supper  was  served.  I  did  n't  get 
any,  didn't  want  any.  By  eight  o'clock  we  were 
being  prepared  for  the  night.  How  I  dreaded  it ! 
We  were  a  lot  of  poor,  forlorn  men  and  boys,  twenty- 
four  of  us,  all  more  or  less  broken  somewhere,  all 
suffering;  some  groaning  and  complaining,  some 
silently  bearing  their  agony.  In  the  cot  next  to  mine 
there  was  a  great  burly  fellow,  who  called  me  Matey 
and  said  I  was  in  luck.  I  did  n't  care  much  to  pursue 
the  subject,  but  asked  him  how  he  made  that  out. 

" You've  had  one  leg  broke  twice  Hi  'ear:  that 
haain't  nuthin'.  Hi  've  'ad  both  legs  hoff  at  the  knee, 
and  Hi  've  a  missus  and  six  kiddies." 

I  was  inclined  to  agree  with  him;  but  a  Susan- 
Nipper-like  person  said,  "No  talking,"  and  I  was 
glad  she  did. 


166  "20" 

The  pain  was  dreadful.  I  wanted  a  great  many 
little  attentions,  and  got  them,  from  a  nurse  whose 
name  after  all  these  years  I  here  record  with  respect 
and  affection  —  Nurse  Hare.  Midnight  came ;  I  was 
suffering  terribly.  Finally  I  asked  Nurse  if  I  could 
not  have  a  hypodermic.  She  said  she  thought  I 
could,  and  presently  came  and  jabbed  a  little  needle 
into  my  arm,  at  the  same  time  telling  me  to  be  very 
quiet  in  order  that  the  drug  might  take  effect.  At 
last,  I  fell  into  a  troubled  sleep,  only  to  start  out  of  it 
again.  Still,  I  got  a  little  sleep  from  time  to  time, 
and  finally  morning  came.  A  few  days  later,  when 
Nurse  Hare  and  I  were  exchanging  confidences,  she 
told  me  the  hypodermic  was  of  cold  water  only.  "I 
could  n't  'ave  given  you  a  'ypodermic  without  orders," 
she  said. 

Morning  comes  slowly  in  London;  sometimes  in 
December  it  can  hardly  be  said  to  come  at  all ;  but 
breakfast  comes.  By  six  o'clock  the  gas  was  lit,  and 
hot  water  and  basins  and  towels  were  passed  about 
to  those  who  could  use  them.  Confusion  took  the 
place  of  comparative  quiet.  I  had  not  tasted  food 
for  almost  twenty-four  hours.  I  was  hungry.  The 
pain  in  my  leg  was  a  deep  throbbing  pain,  but  it 
could  be  borne.  I  began  to  look  about  me.  Some- 
one said,  "Good-morning,  Twenty,"  and  I  replied, 
"Good-morning,  Seventeen.  What  kind  of  a  night 
did  you  have?"  —  "Rotten,  'ad  the  'ump."  It  oc- 
curred to  me  that  I  had  always  wanted  to  talk  to  a 
pure  and  undefiled  cockney  and  that  I  now  had  an 
excellent  opportunity  to  learn.  Breakfast,  which 


SMITHFIELD  ENTRANCE  TO  SAINT  BARTHOLOMEW'S  HOSPITAL 


"20"  167 

came  to  me  on  a  tray,  was  delicious :  porridge  and 
milk,  tea,  bread,  butter,  and  jam.  I  wanted  a  second 
round,  but  something  was  said  about  temperature, 
and  I  was  forced  to  be  content, 

Late  in  the  day,  as  it  seemed,  but  actually  about 
nine  o'clock,  my  uncle  came  to  see  me.  Poor  fellow, 
he  too  had  passed  a  sleepless  night  and  showed  it. 
What  could  he  do  for  me  ?  There  was  just  one  man 
I  wanted  to  see  above  all  others  —  my  friend  Hutt, 
or  as  he  pronounced  it,  'Utt,  the  bookseller  in  Clem- 
ents Inn  Passage.  Would  my  uncle  go  and  bring  him 
to  me  ?  He  would ;  he  did  not  say  so,  but  he  would 
have  fetched  me  a  toothpick  from  the  f urtherest  inch 
of  Asia  if  I  had  asked  for  it.  He  had  never  seen  Mr. 
Hutt,  he  had  been  in  London  only  some  forty-eight 
hours,  he  did  not  know  his  way  around,  and  was  as 
nervous  as  a  hen.  I  told  him  as  well  as  I  could  where 
Hutt's  shop  was  and  he  started  off;  as  he  went,  I 
noticed  he  was  carrying  my  umbrella,  which  had  a 
rather  curious  horn  handle  studded  with  round- 
headed  silver  tacks  —  quite  an  unusual-looking 
handle.  I  am  telling  the  exact  truth  when  I  say 
that  my  uncle  promptly  lost  his  way,  and  an  hour 
later,  my  friend  Hutt,  hurrying  along  the  crowded 
Strand,  saw  a  man  wandering  about,  apparently 
looking  for  someone  or  something,  and  carrying  my 
umbrella.  He  went  up  and,  calling  my  uncle  by 
name  (he  had  heard  me  speak  of  him),  asked  if  he 
could  direct  him  anywhere.  My  uncle  was  amazed, 
as  well  he  might  be,  and  conducted  my  friend,  or 
rather  was  conducted  by  him,  to  my  bedside. 


168  "20" 

When  Mr.  Willett  came  in  on  his  rounds  later  in 
the  day,  my  uncle  entered  upon  a  rather  acrimonious 
discussion  with  him  on  the  subject  of  my  being  a 
charity  patient  in  a  public  ward.  Mr.  Willett  ex- 
plained very  patiently  that  I  should  have  every  at- 
tention, but  as  for  private  rooms,  there  were  none. 
Whatever  I  needed,  the  hospital  would  supply,  but 
under  the  rules  nothing  could  be  brought  in  to  me, 
nothing  of  any  kind  or  character,  and  no  tips  or  fees 
were  permitted.  Finally  my  uncle,  dear  old  man, 
broke  down  and  cried;  and  then  Mr.  Willett,  like 
the  gentleman  he  was,  said,  "I  tell  you  what  I  '11  do. 
There  are  no  private  rooms,  but  so  sure  I  am  that 
your  nephew  would  not  in  a  week's  time  go  into  one 
if  there  were,  that  I  promise  that,  when  he  can  be 
moved  without  danger,  I  will  personally  put  him  in 
a  nursing  home  and  take  care  of  him  myself  if  he 
wishes  it;  but  I  know  from  experience  that  your 
nephew  will  find  so  much  of  interest  going  on  about 
him  that  he  will  wish  to  remain  here.  We  have  had 
gentlemen  here  before  —  why,  sir,  nobility  even." 

With  this  we  were  forced  to  be  content,  and  it 
turned  out  exactly  as  Mr.  Willett  prophesied. 

My  greatest  discomfort  arose  from  my  being  com- 
pelled to  remain  always  in  one  position.  With  my 
leg  in  a  plaster-cast,  in  which  were  two  windows 
through  which  my  wounds  were  observed  and  dressed, 
and  securely  fastened  in  a  cradle,  I  was  compelled  to 
remain  on  my  back  and  could  move  only  my  upper 
body  without  assistance.  At  first  I  found  this  des- 
perately irksome,  but  I  gradually  became  accus- 


"20"  169 

tomed  to  it.  I  was  greatly  helped  by  a  simple  device 
which  I  thought  at  the  time  a  great  blessing ;  I  have 
never  seen  it  elsewhere,  and  wonder  why.  In  the 
wall  about  eight  feet  above  the  head  of  each  bed  was 
set  a  stout  iron  bracket,  a  bracket  strong  enough  to 
bear  the  weight  of  a  heavy  man.  From  the  end  of 
the  bracket,  about  thirty  inches  from  the  wall,  hung 
a  rope,  perhaps  five  feet  long;  a  handle-bar  with  a 
hole  in  it,  through  which  the  rope  passed,  enabled 
one  to  adjust  the  handle  at  any  height  desired  above 
the  bed.  A  knot  at  the  end  of  the  rope  prevented 
the  handle  slipping  off  and  fixed  the  lower  limit  of  its 
travel,  but  it  could  be  adjusted  by  another  knot  at 
any  higher  point  desired.  The  primary  object  of 
this  device,  which  was  called  a  pulley,  was  to  enable 
the  patient  to  lift  himself  up  in  bed  without  subject- 
ing his  lower  body  to  strain  of  any  kind.  But  it  had 
many  other  purposes.  From  it  one  could  hang  one's 
newspaper,  or  watch,  or  handkerchief,  and  it  served 
also  as  a  harmless  plaything.  Have  you  seen  a  kitten 
play  with  a  ball  of  wool  ?  In  like  manner  have  I  seen 
great  men  relieve  the  monotony  with  their  pulley, 
spinning  it,  swinging  it,  sliding  the  handle  up  and 
down,  for  hours  at  a  time. 

Without  suggesting  that  I  was  in  any  way  a  con- 
spicuous person  in  the  ward,  I  am  bound  to  say  that 
my  fellow  patients  treated  me  as  a  "toff"  —  in  other 
words,  a  swell.  This  was  due  solely  to  the  fact  that  I 
had  a  watch.  Such  a  possession  in  a  public  ward  of 
a  London  hospital  is  like  keeping  a  carriage  or  a  gig ; 
to  use  Carlyle's  word,  it  is  a  mark  of  respectability. 


170  "20" 

Frequently  during  the  night  I  would  hear  some  poor 
helpless  sufferer  say,  "Hi  siay,  20,  wot  time  his  hit  ?" 
It  occurred  to  me  that  it  would  be  a  nice  thing  to  have 
one  of  my  friends  go  to  Sir  John  Bennett's,  the  famous 
clockmaker,  and  buy  a  small  clock  with  a  very  soft 
strike,  which  would  mark  the  hours  without  disturb- 
ing anyone.  I  spoke  to  Nurse  Hare  about  it,  and  she 
to  someone  in  authority.  The  answer  came :  no  gifts 
could  be  accepted  while  I  was  in  the  hospital.  After 
my  discharge  any  gifts  I  might  see  fit  to  make  should 
be  sent  to  the  hospital,  to  be  used  as  the  authorities 
thought  best,  and  not  to  any  ward  in  particular. 
Another  "  'ard,  f aast  rule,"  and  a  good  one. 

Before  a  week  had  passed,  Christmas  was  upon  us. 
The  afternoon  before,  I  sent  out  for  a  copy  of  "The 
Christmas  Carol,"  which  I  had  read  so  often  before, 
and  have  read  so  often  since,  on  Christmas  Eve. 
Through  this  little  book  Dickens  has,  more  than  any 
other  man,  given  Christmas  its  character  of  cheer  and 
good-will;  but  it  reads  better  in  London  than  else- 
where. 

"How's  the  weather  outside  ?"  I  asked,  looking  up 
from  my  book,  of  a  "dresser"  who  had  just  come  in. 

"There's  snow  on  the  ground  and  a  regular  'Lon- 
don particular'  [fog],  and  it's  beginning  to  sleet." 

I  thanked  my  lucky  stars  that  I  was  in  bed,  as 
warm  as  toast,  and  wondered  what  I  would  get  for  a 
"  Christmas  box,"  —  that  is  to  say,  a  Christmas  pres- 
ent,—  for  we  were  all  looking  forward  to  something. 
There  was  to  be  a  tree  in  the  adjoining  ward,  but,  as 
I  could  not  be  moved,  I  was  to  have  my  presents 


"20"  171 

brought  to  me.  I  can  still  see  the  gifts  I  received  from 
kindly  disposed  ladies !  Useful  gifts !  A  little  game  of 
cards  played  with  Scripture  texts;  a  handkerchief 
primarily  intended  for  mental  stimulation,  with  the 
alphabet  and  numbers  up  to  ten  printed  thereon;  a 
pair  of  socks,  hand-knitted,  of  a  yarn  of  the  consist- 
ency of  coarse  twine ;  a  pair  of  pulse-warmers,  and  a 
book, —  a  copy  of  "The  British  Workman," — and 
last,  but  not  least,  a  pair  of  stout  hobnailed  shoes. 
Ladies,  too,  came  and  offered  to  read  to  me,  assum- 
ing that  I  could  not  read  to  myself,  and  in  other  ways 
showed  their  kindness  of  heart.  God  bless  them  every 
one. 

No  one  ever  worked  harder  at  a  foreign  language 
than  I  did  at  learning  cockney.  I  drawled  my  o's  and 
i's,  and  broadened  my  a's,  and  dropped  my  A's  and 
picked  'em  up  again  and  put  them  in  the  wrong 
place ;  and  I  had  the  best  instructors  in  London.  A 
few  in  the  ward  could  read,  but  more  could  not ;  and 
almost  without  exception  they  spoke  that  peculiar 
dialect  which  is  the  curious  inheritance  of  the  Lon- 
doner. Those  of  us  whose  memories  go  back  twenty- 
five  years  or  so  remember  it  as  the  medium  of  that 
great  music-hall  artist,  Albert  Chevalier.  His  songs 
were  then  all  the  rage,  as  were,  too,  Gus  Ellen's.  As 
we  became  better  acquainted,  we  sang  them  together, 
and  I  then  acquired  an  accomplishment  which  has 
even  yet  not  entirely  deserted  me.  (I  should  have 
said  that  it  was  the  custom  for  the  surgical  wards  of 
St.  Bartholomew's  Hospital  to  take  in  accident  cases 
continuously  until  all  the  beds  were  full ;  as  a  result, 


172  "20'* 

most  of  the  patients  entered  about  the  same  time, 
and  we  came  to  know  one  another,  by  number,  very 
intimately  in  the  two  or  four  or  six  weeks'  residence.) 

Mr.  Willett  was  quite  right :  I  would  not  have  been 
moved  into  a  private  room  for  something  handsome. 
There  were  so  many  men  worse  off  than  myself,  that 
I  forgot  myself  in  thinking  of  others.  "Twenty-one" 
had  lost  both  feet;  I  certainly  was  fortunate  com- 
pared with  him.  "  Seventeen,"  while  cleaning  a  plate- 
glass  window  from  a  ladder,  had  slipped  and  plunged 
through  the  window,  damaging  himself  horribly  in 
half  a  dozen  ways;  I  certainly  was  lucky  compared 
with  him.  "Eight"  had  undergone  three  serious  op- 
erations and  another  one  was  contemplated.  In 
short,  as  soon  as  I  became  reasonably  comfortable  I 
began  to  feel  quite  at  home.  I  had  my  books  and 
papers  and  magazines,  and  spent  hours  in  playing 
checkers  for  a  penny  a  game  with  a  poor  chap  who 
had  lost  an  arm.  He  almost  always  beat  me,  but  a 
shilling  was  not  much  to  pay  for  an  afternoon's 
diversion. 

No  one  could  spend  two  months  or  so  in  St.  Bar- 
tholomew's Hospital, — "Bart's,"  as  it  is  affection- 
ately called, —  without  seeking  to  know  something  of 
its  history.  Its  origin  is  shrouded  in  antiquity.  In  the 
church  of  St.  Bartholomew  the  Great,  wedged  into  a 
corner  of  Smithfield  just  outside  the  gate,  is  the  tomb 
of  its  founder,  Rahere,  a  minstrel,  or  court  jester, 
of  Henry  I.  While  on  a  pilgrimage  to  Rome,  he  was 
stricken  with  a  serious  illness,  during  which  he  made 
a  vow  that,  if  he  lived  to  get  back  to  London,  he 


TOMB  OF  RAHERE,  THE  FOUNDER  OF  ST.  BARTHOLOMEW'S  HOSPITAL  :    ONE  OF 
THE  OLDEST  MONUMENTS  IN  LONDON 


"20"  173 

would  build  a  hospital  in  thanksgiving.  Thus  it  was 
that,  in  the  year  1102,  a  priory  and  hospital  were 
founded.  Thanks  to  the  protests  of  the  citizens  of  Lon- 
don, it  not  only  escaped  the  attentions  of  Henry 
VIII,  when  he  entered  upon  his  period  of  destruc- 
tion, but  it  was  even  said  to  have  been  reestablished 
by  him.  Thenceforth  it  came  to  be  regarded  as  the 
first  of  royal  hospitals.  In  receipt  of  a  princely  income, 
it  has  from  time  out  of  mind  been  the  scene  of  great 
events  in  surgical  and  medical  science.  Harvey,  phy- 
sician of  Charles  I,  the  discoverer  of  the  circulation 
of  the  blood,  was  chief  physician  of  the  hospital  for 
more  than  thirty  years.  A  roll  of  the  distinguished 
names  would  be  tedious ;  but  Mr.  Willett  was  quite 
right  when  he  said  that  I  had  come  to  the  right  shop 
for  fractures.  "We  make  a  specialty  of  fractures" 
might  have  been  adopted  as  a  slogan,  had  slogans 
been  in  vogue  when  the  famous  surgeon, Percival  Pott, 
was  thrown  from  his  horse  and  sustained  a  com- 
pound fracture,  and  with  difficulty  prevented  a 
brother  surgeon  from  giving  him  first  aid  with  a  knife 
and  saw.  How  he  directed  the  treatment  of  his  own 
case  and  saved  his  leg  is  one  of  the  many  legends  of 
the  place. 

But  to  return  to  Pitcairn  Ward.  It  was  a  large 
room,  with  a  high  ceiling,  and  with  two  rows  of  beds, 
twelve  to  a  row,  on  either  side  of  a  wide  aisle.  It  was 
heated  by  a  soft-coal-burning  device,  something  like 
a  range,  but  with  a  large  open  grate,  the  smoke  from 
which  curled  lazily  up  the  chimney.  One  morning  it 
was  discovered  that  the  fire  was  out;  and  as  this 


174  "20" 

seemed  to  indicate  neglect,  and  certainly  meant  work 
for  the  ward-maid,  each  patient  as  he  woke  and  made 
this  discovery  sang  out  cheerily,  "Fire's  out."  To 
these  remarks  the  maid  usually  replied  by  asking  the 
speaker  to  mind  his  own  business ;  or  perhaps  she 
contented  herself  by  making  faces  or  sticking  her 
tongue  out  at  him. 

Presently  a  curious  sound  was  heard  from  the 
chimney,  as  of  a  fluttering  of  birds,  followed  by  a 
curious  cry,  "Peep,  peep,  peep,"  which  was  instantly 
recognized  by  those  familiar  with  it  as  being  the  pro- 
fessional call  of  the  chimney  sweep.  Someone  cried, 
"Sweeps!"  The  effect  was  instantaneous.  As  when 
one  discovers  a  ship  in  mid-ocean  and  announces  the 
fact,  all  rush  to  the  rail,  so  all  who  could  crowded  in 
wheel-chairs  around  the  fireplace,  only  to  be  told  to 
"Be  hoff "  by  the  ward-maid. 

Presently  the  sounds  grew  louder,  until,  at  last,  a 
tall,  slender  lad,  black  with  soot  from  head  to  foot, 
armed  with  brushes  and  brooms,  slid  down  into  the 
grate,  leaped  out,  gave  a  little  scream,  bowed,  and 
disappeared,  almost  before  we  could  clap  our  eyes 
upon  him.  My  intention  had  been  to  ask  the  little 
urchin  to  get  into  a  bed  next  to  mine,  at  that  moment 
vacant,  and  give  an  imitation  of  Charles  Lamb's 
chimney-sweep  "asleep  like  a  young  Howard  in  the 
state  bed  of  Arundel  Castle."  I  probably  saved 
myself  a  lot  of  trouble  by  being  so  surprised  at  his 
quick  entrance  and  get-away  that  I  said  not  a  single 
word.  "A  chimney-sweeper  quickly  makes  his  way 
through  a  crowd  by  being  dirty." 


"20"  175 

Anything  kinder,  anything  more  considerate  than 
the  authorities  of  the  hospital,  from  Mr.  Willett  down 
to  the  ward-maid,  could  hardly  be  imagined.  There 
was,  however,  one  ordeal  against  which  I  set  my  face 
like  flint  —  namely,  shaving.  Shaving  was  I  think  an 
extra ;  its  cost,  a  penny.  Every  day  a  man  and  a  boy 
entered  the  ward,  the  boy  carrying  a  small  tub  filled 
with  thick  soapsuds,  the  man  with  a  razor  incredibly 
sharp.  One  cried,  "Shaves?"  and  perhaps  from  two 
or  half  a  dozen  beds  came  the  word,  "  Yus."  No  time 
was  lost  in  preliminaries.  A  common  towel  was  tied 
around  one's  neck,  and  a  brush  like  a  large  round 
paint-brush  was  dipped  into  the  thick  lather.  With 
a  quick  movement,  the  result  of  much  practice,  the 
boy  made  a  pass  or  two  from  ear  to  ear ;  with  a  twist 
and  a  return  movement,  the  cheeks,  lips,  mouth,  and 
chin  were  covered  with  soap.  The  man  wielded  a 
razor  in  much  the  same  manner,  and  the  victim  spent 
the  next  hour  or  two  patting  his  face  with  his  hands, 
then  withdrawing  them  and  looking  at  them,  as  if  he 
expected  to  see  them  covered  with  blood.  The  opera- 
tion was  complete.  I  use  the  word  "operation"  ad- 
visedly; although  chloroform  was  not  administered, 
I  always  insisted  that  it  should  have  been.  The  first 
surgeons  were  barbers ;  at  least  the  two  trades  were 
closely  allied,  and  in  England  they  seem  to  be  allied 
still.  Thanks  to  the  kindness  of  one  of  the  "dressers," 
when  I  became  well  enough  to  be  shaved,  I  had  a  real 
barber  in  from  a  near-by  shop.  It  cost  me  half  a  crown, 
and  was  a  prolonged  agony  rather  than  a  brief  one ; 
that  was  the  chief  difference ;  in  essentials  the  opera- 


176  "20" 

tion  was  the  same.  Is  it  surprising  that  in  England 
gentlemen  invariably  shave  themselves  ? 

Some  men  make  excellent  patients,  I  am  told,  when 
they  are  very  ill,  and  allow  their  bad  traits  to  come 
to  the  surface  as  they  become  convalescent.  It  was 
so  in  my  case.  I  grew  tired  of  the  life  and  began  in- 
quiring how  much  longer  my  leg  was  to  be  kept  in 
plaster.  Fortunately  I  had  no  idea  of  the  ordeal  of 
removing  a  plaster-cast  which  reached  from  one's  toes 
to  one's  hip.  At  last  the  day  came,  and  I  shall  never 
forget  it.  I  had  first  been  permitted  to  limp  around 
the  ward  on  crutches  for  a  few  days,  and  soon  learned 
to  manage  them  very  nicely ;  and  when  a  time  was  set 
for  my  leg  to  come  out  of  plaster,  I  was  very  thankful. 
It  was  the  work  of  hours :  every  tiny  hair  on  my  leg 
was  firmly  set  in  plaster  of  Paris,  and  the  removal  of 
the  cast  occasioned  such  continuous  pain  that  sev- 
eral times  I  thought  I  should  faint.  At  last,  however, 
the  task  was  accomplished  and  I  looked  down  at  the 
leg  which  had  been  the  subject  of  so  much  discussion, 
which  had  been  dressed  so  often.  It  was  a  poor 
thing,  but  mine  own ;  no  one  else  would  have  had  it ; 
a  poor,  shrunken,  shortened,  emaciated  member,  but 
whole,  thank  God  !  I  did  not  then  know  that  a  year 
after  the  accident  happened  I  should  be  walking  as 
well  as  ever ;  and  let  me  say  that  I  have  never  had  a 
twinge  of  pain  in  it  since.  Mr.  Willett  and  Mr.  Peter- 
son, and  "Sister"  and  Nurse  Hare,  I  doff  my  hat 
to  you. 

Measurements  were  taken  for  a  leather  stocking, 
which  was  a  work  of  art ;  and  finally  a  date  was  set 


"20"  177 

for  my  dismissal.  A  room  had  been  secured  for  me  in 
a  not-distant  lodging ;  for  I  still  had  to  go  to  the  hos- 
pital once  or  twice  a  week  to  have  the  rapidly  healing 
wounds  dressed.  I  made  my  departure  from  the  hos- 
pital early  one  afternoon,  in  what  was  called  a  pri- 
vate ambulance ;  but  I  am  certain  that  the  vehicle  was 
usually  used  as  a  hearse.  The  stretcher  on  which  I 
was  laid  was  on  casters  and  was  pushed  into  the  rear 
door  of  a  long  low  contrivance  with  glass  sides.  As 
we  prepared  to  drive  away  from  the  hospital  gate,  an 
effigy,  that  of  Henry,  the  Eighth  of  that  name,  looked 
down  upon  me  from  his  niche  over  Smithfield  Gate. 
A  crowd  gathered,  and  from  my  horizontal  position 
the  unusual  sight  of  so  many  people  moving  about  in 
perpendicular  made  me  dizzy.  I  closed  my  eyes  and 
heard  someone  inquire,  "Is  he  dead?"  I  was  very 
unhappy,  and  still  more  so  when,  half  an  hour  later, 
I  found  myself  in  a  very  tiny  bedroom,  as  it  seemed 
to  me,  and  in  a  bed  with  no  pulley.  I  could  have  cried ; 
indeed,  I  think  I  did.  I  wanted  to  go  back  to  the 
hospital ;  I  felt  that  I  was  being  neglected  and  should 
die  of  suffocation. 

A  maid  came  in  and  asked  if  I  wanted  anything. 
"Want  anything !"  I  certainly  did,  and  I  gave  her  a 
list  of  things  I  wanted,  in  the  most  approved  cockney. 
As  she  left  my  room,  I  heard  her  say  to  another  maid 
just  outside  the  door,  "  'Ave  you  'card  that  bloke  hin 
there  talk?  Faancy  'im  tryin'  to  paass  hisself  hoff 
has  comin'  from  New  York !" 


X 

LIVING  TWENTY-FIVE  HOURS  A  DAY 

IF  one  elects  to  live  well  out  in  the  country,  going 
to  the  opera  presents  serious  difficulties.  One  can't 
very  well  go  home  to  dress  and  go  in  town  again ;  and 
if  one  decides  to  stay  in  town  at  a  hotel,  there  is  a 
suitcase  to  be  packed  in  the  morning  —  an  operation 
the  result  of  which  I  abhor,  as  I  always  forget  some- 
thing essential.  On  one  occasion,  some  years  ago,  I, 
like  a  dutiful  husband,  had  agreed  to  go  to  the  opera, 
and  having  packed  my  bag  and  sent  it  to  my  hotel, 
dismissed  from  my  mind  the  details  of  my  toilet,  until 
I  came  to  dress  in  the  evening ;  when  I  discovered  to 
my  horror  that  I  had  absentmindedly  packed  a  col- 
ored neglige  shirt  instead  of  the  white,  hard-boiled 
article  which  custom  has  decreed  for  such  occasions, 
and  that  several  other  little  essentials  were  missing. 
I  was  quite  undressed  when  I  made  this  discovery; 
it  was  already  late,  and  my  temper,  never  absolutely 
flawless  on  opera  nights,  was  not  improved  by  my 
wife's  observation  that  we  would  surely  miss  the  over- 
ture. I  thought  it  altogether  likely,  and  said  so  — 
briefly. 

It  was,  as  I  remember,  my  Lord  Chesterfield  who 
observed  that  when  one  goes  to  the  opera  one  should 
leave  one's  mind  at  home;  I  had  gone  his  Lordship 
one  better,  I  had  left  practically  everything  at  home, 


LIVING  TWENTY-FIVE  HOURS  A  DAY    179 

and  I  heartily  wished  that  I  was  at  home,  too.  I  shall 
not,  I  think,  be  accused  of  misstatement  when  I  say 
that  it  is  altogether  probable  that  most  married  men, 
if  they  could  be  excused  from  escorting  their  wives  to 
the  opera,  would  cheerfully  make  a  substantial  con- 
tribution to  any  worthy  —  or  even  unworthy  — 
charity. 

Thoughts  such  as  these,  if  thoughts  they  may  be 
called,  surged  through  my  head,  as  I  rapidly  dressed 
and  prepared  to  dash  through  the  streets  in  search  of 
any  "gents'  furnishing  goods"  shop  that  might  chance 
to  be  open  at  that  hour.  I  needed  such  articles  of 
commerce  as  would  enable  me  to  make  myself  pre- 
sentable at  the  opera,  and  I  needed  them  at  once.  It 
was  raining,  and  as  I  dashed  up  one  street  and  down 
another,  I  discovered  that  the  difference  between  a 
raised  umbrella  and  a  parachute  is  negligible;  so  I 
closed  mine,  with  the  result  that  I  was  thoroughly 
drenched  before  I  had  secured  what  I  needed.  I  have 
the  best  of  wives,  but  truth  compels  me  to  say  that 
when,  upon  my  return,  she  greeted  me  with  the  re- 
mark that  what  she  wanted  especially  to  hear  was  the 
overture  and  that  we  would  certainly  be  late,  I  al- 
most —  I  say  I  almost  —  lost  my  temper. 

Is  it  necessary  for  me  to  remark  that  we  do  not  go 
to  the  opera  frequently?  It  was  my  wife's  evening, 
not  mine ;  and  as  I  sat  on  the  side  of  a  bed,  eating  a 
sandwich  and  struggling  to  insert  square  shirt  pegs 
in  round  holes,  to  the  gently  sustained  motif  that  we 
would  surely  miss  the  overture,  I  thought  of  home,  of 
my  books,  of  a  fire  of  logs  crackling,  of  my  pipe,  and 


180    LIVING  TWENTY-FIVE  HOURS  A  DAY 

I  wondered  who  it  was  who  said,  when  anything 
untoward  happened,  "All  this  could  have  been 
avoided  if  I  had  staid  at  home." 

Finally,  after  doing  up  my  wife's  back, —  "hooking 
them  in  the  lace,"  —  I  finished  my  own  unsatisfac- 
tory toilet,  feeling,  and  doubtless  looking,  very  much 
as  Joe  Gargery  did  when  he  went  to  see  Miss 
Havisham.  But  at  last  we  were  ready,  and  we 
descended  to  the  lobby  of  our  hotel,  having  in  the 
confusion  quite  overlooked  the  fact  that  we  should 
require  a  taxi.  It  was  still  raining,  and  not  a  taxi  or 
other  conveyance  was  to  be  had !  I  was  quite  non- 
plussed for  the  moment,  and  felt  deeply  grieved  when 
my  wife  remarked  that  it  was  hardly  worth  while  now 
to  leave  the  hotel  —  we  were  so  late  that  we  should 
miss  the  overture  anyway ;  to  which  I  replied  —  but 
never  mind  specifically  what  I  said;  it  was  to  the 
effect  that  we  would  go  to  the  opera  or  bust. 

But  how?  Standing  at  the  door  of  the  hotel,  I 
waited  my  chance,  and  finally  a  taxi  arrived;  but 
quite  unexpectedly  a  man  appeared  from  nowhere 
and  was  about  to  enter  it,  saying,  as  he  did  so,  in  a 
fine  rolling  English  voice,  "I  wish  to  go  to  the  opera 
house." 

There  was  no  time  to  lose;  quickly  brushing  the 
man  aside,  I  called  to  my  wife  and  passed  her  into 
the  taxi,  and  then,  turning  to  the  stranger,  I  ex- 
plained to  him  that  we,  too,  were  going  to  the  opera 
and  that  he  was  to  be  our  guest.  I  pushed  the  as- 
tonished man  into  the  machine,  told  the  driver  to  go 
like  h —  (to  drive  rapidly),  and  entering  myself, 


LIVING  TWENTY-FIVE  HOURS  A  DAY    181 

pulled  to  the  door  and  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief.  We 
were  off. 

For  a  moment  nothing  was  said.  We  were  all  more 
or  less  surprised  to  find  ourselves  together.  I  think 
I  may  say  that  my  newly  discovered  friend  was 
astonished.  Something  had  to  be  said,  and  it  was  up 
to  me  to  say  it.  "My  name  is  Newton,"  I  said ;  and 
gently  waving  toward  Mrs.  Newton  a  white-kid- 
gloved  hand,  which  in  the  darkness  looked  like  a 
small  ham,  I  explained  that  Mrs.  Newton  was  very 
musical  and  was  particularly  anxious  to  hear  the  over- 
ture of  the  opera,  and  that  I  was  unavoidably  late. 
I  added  that  I  hoped  he  would  forgive  my  rudeness ; 
then,  remembering  that  I  was  speaking  to  an  English 
gentleman  who  probably  thought  me  mad,  I  in- 
quired if  he  were  not  a  stranger  in  Philadelphia. 

"Yes,"  he  replied;  "I  only  arrived  in  the  city  this 
evening." 

"And  have  you  friends  here?"  I  asked. 

His  reply  almost  disconcerted  me:  "Present  com- 
pany excepted,  none." 

"Oh,  come  now,"  I  said;  "I  took  you  for  an  Eng- 
lishman, but  no  Englishman  could  possibly  make  so 
graceful  a  speech  on  such  short  notice.  You  must 
be  either  Scotch  or  Irish ;  whenever  one  meets  a  par- 
ticularly charming  Englishman,  he  invariably  turns 
out  to  be  Scotch  —  or  Irish." 

"Well,  the  fact  is,  I'm  Scotch,"  my  friend  replied ; 
"my  name  is  Craig,  Frank  Craig.  I'm  an  artist." 

"Don't  apologize,"  I  said;  "you  are  probably  not 
a  very  great  artist.  I'm  a  business  man,  and  not  a 


182    LIVING  TWENTY-FIVE  HOURS  A  DAY 

very  great  business  man  either ;  and  as  we  are  the 
only  friends  you  have  in  the  city,  you  shall  have 
supper  with  us  after  the  opera.  Don't  decline.  I'm 
very  much  at  home  in  our  hotel,  as  perhaps  you  no- 
ticed. Ask  for  me  at  the  door  of  the  supper-room. 
Don't  forget  my  name.  Here  we  are  at  the  opera 
house,  in  good  time  for  the  overture,  after  all." 

And  I  passed  my  friend  out  of  the  taxi,  and  he, 
assuring  me  that  he  would  join  us  at  supper,  went  his 
way  and  we  ours. 

During  the  performance,  which  was  miserable,  I 
chuckled  gently  to  myself,  and  wondered  what  my 
Scotch  friend  thought  of  the  affair  and  whether  he 
would  keep  his  appointment.  The  opera  was  late, 
there  was  the  usual  delay  in  getting  away,  and  it  was 
almost  midnight  when  the  head  waiter  conducted  my 
new-found  guest  to  our  table.  Then  for  the  first  time 
we  had  a  good  look  at  each  other,  and  told  each  other 
how  funny  it  all  was,  and  how  unexpected  and  de- 
lightful. After  an  excellent  supper  and  a  bottle  of 
champagne,  followed  by  a  fine  brandy  and  cigars, — 
for  I  determined  to  do  the  thing  well, —  we  grew 
confidential.  We  talked  of  life  and  of  travel,  and 
finally,  of  course,  about  books  and  authors. 

"Have  you  ever  met  Booth  Tarkington?"  my 
friend  inquired.  I  had.  Did  I  know  him  ?  I  did  not. 
Craig  had  been  staying  with  him  in  Indianapolis. 
Had  I  ever  heard  of  Arnold  Bennett  ?  I  had.  Did  I 
care  for  his  books  ?  I  did.  He  also  had  been  staying 
with  Booth  Tarkington  in  Indianapolis;  in  fact, 
Bennett  and  he  were  traveling  together  at  the  pres- 


LIVING  TWENTY-FIVE  HOURS  A  DAY    183 

ent  time.  "Bennett  is  doing  a  book  for  the  Harpers, 
to  be  called  'Your  United  States,'"  Craig  explained, 
and  he,  Craig,  was  doing  the  illustrations  for  it. 

"And  where  is  Arnold  Bennett  now?"  I  asked. 

"Upstairs,  in  bed  and  asleep,  I  hope." 

"What  are  you  doing  to-morrow?" 

"Well,  Bennett  is  lunching  with  the  literati  of  the 
city,  and  I'm  going  to  take  photographs  and  make 
sketches  for  our  book ;  we  are  each  on  our  own,  you 
know." 

"But  the  literati  of  the  city,"  I  repeated  doubt- 
fully ;  "  that  would  be  Agnes  Repplier,  of  course,  and 
Dr.  Furness,  and  Weir  Mitchell,  and  who  else?"  We 
were  rather  shy  of  literati  at  the  moment,  as  we  still 
are,  and  I  hoped  these  would  not  fail  him. 

Craig  did  n't  know ;  he  had  not  been  invited. 

"And  after  the  luncheon,  what  next  ?"  I  inquired. 

"Well,  I  believe  that  we  are  to  go  to  the  picture 
gallery  of  a  Mr.  Weednaar,  with  a  friend  who  has 
secured  cards  for  us.  I  'm  not  invited  to  the  luncheon, 
but  I'm  keen  to  see  the  pictures." 

"Very  well,"  I  said;  "let  me  make  plans  for  you; 
I  tell  you  what  we  '11  do.  I  '11  make  it  a  holiday ;  I  will 
get  my  motor  in  from  the  country,  and  go  around 
with  you  and  show  you  the  sights.  You  want  to 
see  '  Georgian '  Philadelphia  you  say  —  we  call  it 
'  Colonial ' ;  I  know  it  well.  I  '11  be  your  guide ;  you 
shall  take  your  photographs  and  make  your  sketches, 
and  in  the  afternoon  we,  too,  will  go  out  and  see  Mr. 
Widener's  pictures, —  his  name,  by  the  way,  is 
Widener,  not  Weednaar, —  and  if  I  can  find  Harry 


184    LIVING  TWENTY-FIVE  HOURS  A  DAY 

Widener,  a  scion  of  that  house  and  a  friend  of  mine, 
I'll  get  him  to  ask  us  out  for  lunch,  and  we  will  be 
there  to  welcome  Bennett  and  his  friend  with  their 
cards  on  their  arrival.  What,  by  the  way,  is  the 
name  of  your  friend  to  whom  you  owe  your  intro- 
duction to  Mr.  Widener?" 

"A  Mr.  Hellman  of  New  York;  a  bookseller,  I 
believe ;  perhaps  you  know  him,  too." 

"Perfectly,"  I  said;  "I  probably  owe  him  money 
at  this  very  minute." 

With  this  understanding  and  much  pleased  with 
each  other,  we  parted  for  the  night. 

The  next  morning,  at  half -past  nine,  we  met  in  the 
lobby,  and  I  was  presented  to  Arnold  Bennett.  At 
that  time  I  do  not  remember  that  I  had  ever  seen  a 
photograph  of  him,  and  I  was  quite  disillusioned  by 
seeing  a  person  quite  lacking  in  distinction,  in  ill- 
fitting  clothes,  with  two  very  prominent  upper  teeth 
which  would  have  been  invaluable  had  he  taken  to 
whistling,  professionally. 

"And  you  are  the  man,"  he  said,  "who  has  so  cap- 
tivated my  friend  Craig  ?  He  told  me  all  about  your 
escapade  last  night,  over  the  breakfast-table,  and  in 
the  excitement  of  narration  he  ate  my  eggs." 

"No  matter,"  said  I ;  "you  are  going  to  lunch  with 
the  literati  of  the  city  —  you  ought  not  to  worry 
over  the  loss  of  your  eggs.  But  what  is  quite  as  im- 
portant, who  is  giving  the  luncheon?" 

"George  Horace  Lorimer,"  he  replied. 

"Then,"  said  I,  "you  certainly  need  not  worry  over 
the  loss  of  a  pair  of  eggs.  In  an  hour  or  two  you'll  be 


GLORIA  DEI  (OLD  SWEDES')  CHURCH,  PHILADELPHIA 


LIVING  TWENTY-FIVE  HOURS  A  DAY    185 

glad  you  did  not  eat  them,  for  Lorimer  understands 
ordering  a  luncheon — no  man  better.  I'm  sorry  for 
Craig,  for  he's  lunching  with  me;  but  we  shall  join 
you  during  the  afternoon  at  Mr.  Widener's." 

This  seemed  to  upset  Bennett  completely.  "But 
we  are  going  to  Mr.  Weednaar's  by  appointment  — 
we  have  cards  —  " 

"  I  know,  from  George  Hellman,"  I  interrupted.  "  I 
don't  need  any  cards.  If  Harry  Widener  is  at  home, 
we  will  lunch  with  him ;  if  not,  we  will  join  you  some 
time  during  the  afternoon." 

Bennett  looked  at  me  with  astonishment.  He  had 
doubtless  been  warned  of  bunko-steerers,  card- 
sharks,  and  confidence  men  generally.  I  appeared  to 
him  a  very  finished  specimen,  probably  all  the  more 
dangerous  on  that  account.  We  left  him  bewildered. 
He  evidently  thought  that  his  friend  would  be  the 
victim  of  some  very  real  experiences  before  he  saw 
him  again.  As  we  parted,  he  looked  as  if  he  wanted 
to  say  to  Craig,  "If  you  play  poker  with  that  man, 
you  are  lost "  ;  but  he  did  n't. 

We  Philadelphians  do  not  boast  of  the  climate  of 
our  city.  During  the  summer  months  we  usually  tie 
with  some  town  in  Texas  —  Waco,  I  believe  —  for 
the  honor  of  being  the  hottest  place  in  the  country ; 
but  in  November  it  is  delightful,  and  we  have  the 
finest  suburbs  in  the  world.  If  it  were  not  for  its  out- 
lying districts,  Philadelphia  would  be  intolerable. 
But  the  day  was  fine,  we  were  in  high  spirits,  like  boys 
out  for  a  lark,  which  indeed  we  were,  and  I  deter- 


186    LIVING  TWENTY-FIVE  HOURS  A  DAY 

mined  that  our  sightseeing  should  begin  at  the  "Old 
Swedes  Church,"  —  or,  to  give  it  its  proper  name, 
"  Gloria  Dei," —  and  work  our  way  from  the  south- 
ern part  of  the  city  to  the  northern,  stopping  at  such 
old  landmarks  as  would  seem  to  afford  material  for 
Craig's  pencil. 

What  a  wonderful  day  it  was;  agreeable  at  the 
time  and  in  retrospect  delightful,  if  somewhat  tinged 
with  melancholy ;  for  I  chanced  to  read  in  an  English 
newspaper  not  long  ago  of  the  death  of  my  friend 
Craig,  in  some  way  a  victim  of  the  war.  But  looking 
back  upon  that  day,  everything  seemed  as  joyous  as 
the  two  quaintly  carved  and  colored  angels'  heads, 
a  bit  of  old  Swedish  decoration,  which  peered  down 
upon  us  from  the  organ-loft  of  the  old  church,  about 
which  Craig  went  into  ecstasies  of  delight ;  as  well  he 
might,  for  it  is  a  quaint  little  box  of  a  church,  almost 
lost  in  the  shipping  and  commerce  that  surrounds  it. 
Built  by  the  Swedes  before  the  coming  of  William 
Penn,  it  stands  on  the  bank  of  the  Delaware,  on  the 
site  of  a  block-house  in  which  religious  services  had 
been  held  more  than  half  a  century  before  its  erection. 

Too  few  Philadelphians  know  this  tiny  toy  church 
or  attend  its  services :  it  is  out  of  the  beaten  track  of 
the  tourist.  But  some  of  us,  not  entirely  forgetful  of 
old  Philadelphia,  love  to  visit  it  occasionally ;  and  if 
the  sermon  gets  wearisome,  as  sermons  sometimes 
do,  we  can  creep  out  stealthily  and  spend  a  few  min- 
utes prowling  around  the  graveyard,  in  which  inter- 
ments are  still  made  occasionally,  looking  at  the 
tombstones,  on  which  are  curiously  cut  the  now 


ST.  PETER'S  CHURCH,  PHILADELPHIA 


LIVING  TWENTY-FIVE  HOURS  A  DAY    187 

almost  illegible  names  of  devout  men  and  women  who 
departed  this  life  in  faith  and  fear  almost  two  cen- 
turies ago. 

"But  come  now,"  I  at  last  had  to  say,  "this  is  our 
first,  but  by  no  means  our  best,  church ;  wait  until 
you  see  St.  Peter's." 

The  ride  from  Old  Swedes  Church  to  St.  Peter's  has 
nothing  to  recommend  it ;  but  it  is  short,  and  we  were 
soon  standing  in  one  of  the  finest  bits  of  Colonial 
church  architecture  in  America. 

"Why,"  exclaimed  Craig,  "we  have  nothing  more 
beautiful  in  London,  and  there  is  certainly  nothing 
in  New  York  or  Boston  that  can  touch  it." 

"Certainly,  there  is  n't,"  I  said;  "and  if  you  were 
a  Philadelphian  and  had  an  ancestor  buried  in  this 
church  or  within  its  shadow,  you  would  not  have  to 
have  brains,  money,  morals,  or  anything  else.  Of 
course,  these  accessories  would  do  you  no  harm,  and 
in  a  way  might  be  useful ;  but  the  lack  of  them  would 
not  be  ruinous,  as  it  would  be  with  ordinary  folk." 
Then  I  spoke  glibly  the  names  of  the  dead  whom,  had 
they  been  living,  I  should  scarce  have  dared  to  men- 
tion, so  interwoven  are  they  in  the  fabric  of  the  social, 
or,  as  some  might  say,  the  unsocial  life  of  Philadelphia. 

"And  these  people,"  said  Craig,  "do  they  look  like 
other  people?  do  you  know  them?" 

It  was  a  delicate  question.  It  was  not  for  me  to 
tell  him  that  a  collateral  ancestor  was  a  founder  of 
the  Philadelphia  Assembly,  or  to  boast  of  a  bowing 
acquaintance  with  that  charming  woman,  Mrs.  John 
Markoe,  whose  family  pew  we  were  then  reverently 


188    LIVING  TWENTY-FIVE  HOURS  A  DAY 

approaching.  Craig  could,  of  course,  know  nothing  of 
what  a  blessed  thing  it  is  to  be  a  member,  not  of  St. 
Peter's,  but  of  "St.  Peter's  set,"  which  is  a  very  dif- 
ferent matter.  But  he  fully  appreciated  the  archi- 
tectural charm  of  the  building;  and  as  we  strolled 
about,  he  observed  with  the  keenest  interest  the  curi- 
ous arrangement  of  the  organ  and  altar  at  one  end  of 
the  church,  and  the  glorious  old  pulpit  and  reading- 
desk  at  the  other,  with  a  quite  unnecessary  sounding- 
board  —  for  the  church  is  not  large  —  surmounting 
them  like  a  benediction. 

"How  dignified  and  exclusive  the  square  pews  are," 
said  Craig,  "looking  for  all  the  world  like  the  lord  of 
the  manor's,  at  home." 

"Yes,"  said  I,  "and  not  half  so  exclusive  as  the 
people  who  occupy  them.  You  could  have  made  a 
very  pretty  picture  of  this  church  crowded  with 
wealth  and  fashion  and  beauty  a  hundred  and  fifty 
years  ago,  if  you  had  been  lucky  enough  to  have  been 
born  when  there  was  color  in  the  world ;  now  we  all 
look  alike." 

"I  know,"  said  Craig.   "It's  too  bad." 

I  could  have  told  him  a  good  deal  of  the  history  of 
Christ  Church,  which  we  next  visited.  It  is  only  a 
short  distance  from  St.  Peter's,  indeed,  in  the  early 
days  Christ  Church  and  St.  Peter's  formed  one  par- 
ish. The  present  structure  was  built  in  1727,  of  bricks 
brought  over  from  England.  Architecturally,  it  is  the 
finest  church  in  Philadelphia,  and  so  expensive  it  was 
for  the  congregation  of  two  hundred  years  ago  that, 
in  order  to  finish  its  steeple  and  provide  it  with  its 


-I 

CHRIST  CHURCH,  PHILADELPHIA 


LIVING  TWENTY-FIVE  HOURS  A  DAY    189 

fine  chime  of  bells,  recourse  was  had  to  a  lottery ! 
Indeed,  two  lotteries  were  held  before  the  work  was 
completed.  Philadelphians  all  felt  that  they  had  a 
stake  in  the  enterprise,  and  for  a  long  time  the  bells 
were  rung  on  every  possible  occasion.  Queen  Anne 
sent  over  a  solid  silver  communion  service,  which  is 
still  in  use ;  and  the  rector,  Dr.  William  White,  after 
the  Revolution  became  the  second  bishop  of  the  Epis- 
copal Church  in  the  United  States  of  America,  having 
finally  been  consecrated  at  Lambeth  after  years  of 
discussion  as  to  how  the  Episcopacy  was  to  be  car- 
ried on.  So  "Old  Christ,"  as  it  is  affectionately  called, 
may  properly  be  regarded  as  the  Mother  Church  in 
this  country.  When  Philadelphia  was  the  capital  of 
the  nation,  Washington  attended  it,  as  did  John 
Adams,  and  Benjamin  Franklin,  occasionally  —  per- 
haps not  often  enough. 

But  our  time  was  limited  and  there  was  much  to 
see:  Carpenter's  Hall,  and  the  State  House  with  its 
beautiful  windows,  which  Craig  called  Palladian,  and 
its  splendid  Colonial  staircase,  from  which  I  was  quite 
powerless  to  draw  his  attention  to  the  far-famed 
liberty  bell. 

"I  know  all  about  that,"  said  Craig;  "I've  been 
reading  it  up ;  but  if  you  can  tell  me  in  what  single 
respect  an  Englishman  has  n't  just  as  much  liberty 
as  an  American,  I  shall  be  glad  to  listen." 

I  changed  the  subject ;  one  always  hates  to  discuss 
liberty  with  an  Englishman,  they  have  so  many  more 
"rights"  than  we  have. 

Having  forgotten  to  point  out  the  grave  of  our 


190    LIVING  TWENTY-FIVE  HOURS  A  DAY 

greatest  citizen,  Benjamin  Franklin,  who,  we  love  to 
tell  Bostonians,  was  born  in  Philadelphia  at  seven- 
teen years  of  age,  we  retraced  our  steps  —  if  one  can 
be  said  to  retrace  one's  steps  in  a  motor  —  to  the 
Christ  Church  burying-ground  at  Fifth  and  Arch 
streets.  There,  peering  through  the  iron  railing,  we 
read  the  simple  inscription  carved  according  to  his 
wish  on  the  flat  tomb :  "  Benjamin  and  Deborah 
Franklin,  1790."  I  have  always  regretted  that  I  did 
not  avail  myself  of  the  opportunity  once  offered 
me  of  buying  the  manuscript,  in  Franklin's  hand,  of 
the  famous  epitaph  which  he  composed  in  a  rather 
flippant  moment,  in  1728,  for  his  tombstone.  The 
original  is,  I  believe,  among  the  Franklin  papers  in 
the  State  Department  at  Washington,  but  he  made 
at  least  one  copy,  and  possibly  several.  The  one  I 
saw  reads :  — 

THE  BODY 

of 

BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 
PRINTER 

( Like  the  cover  of  an  old  book 

Its  contents  torn  out 
And  stript  of  its  lettering  and  gilding) 

Lies  here,  food  for  worms. 
But  the  work  shall  not  be  lost 
For  it  will  (as  he  believed}  appear  once  more 

In  a  new  and  more  elegant  edition 

Revised  and  corrected 

^/ 

THE  AUTHOR 


LIVING  TWENTY-FIVE  HOURS  A  DAY    191 

No  doubt  the  plain  marble  slab,  with  the  simple 
name  and  date  (for  Franklin  needs  no  epitaph  in 
Philadelphia),  is  more  dignified,  but  I  have  always 
wished  that  his  first  idea  had  been  carried  out. 

As  we  were  only  a  stone's  throw  from  the  Quaker 
Meeting-House,  we  paid  it  a  hasty  visit,  and  I  con- 
fessed, in  reply  to  a  question,  that,  often  as  I  had 
passed  the  austere  old  brick  building,  I  had  never 
entered  it  before,  although  I  had  always  intended  to. 

At  last  I  looked  at  my  watch  —  unnecessarily,  for 
something  told  me  it  was  lunch-time.  We  had  had 
a  busy  morning.  Craig  had  made  sketches  with  in- 
credible rapidity,  while  I  bought  photographs  and 
picture-postals  by  the  score.  We  had  not  been  idle 
for  a  moment,  but  there  was  more  to  be  seen :  Fair- 
mount, —  not  the  Park,  there  was  no  time  for  that, 
and  all  parks  are  more  or  less  alike  although  ours  is 
most  beautiful, —  but  the  old-time  "water-works," 
beautifully  situated  on  the  hillside,  terraced  and  tur- 
reted,  with  its  three  Greek  temples,  so  faultlessly 
proportioned  and  placed  as  to  form  what  Joe  Pennell 
says  is  one  of  the  loveliest  spots  in  America  and  which, 
he  characteristically  adds,  we  in  Philadelphia  do  not 
appreciate.  But  Craig  did.  It  was  a  glorious  day  in 
mid-November;  the  trees  were  in  their  full  autumn 
regalia  of  red  and  gold ;  the  Schuylkill  glistened  like 
silver  in  the  sun,  and  in  the  distance  tumbled,  with  a 
gentle  murmur  of  protest  at  being  disturbed,  over  its 
dam  into  the  lower  level,  where  it  becomes  a  river  of 
use  if  not  of  beauty. 

I  thought  how  seldom  do  we  business  men  pause 


192    LIVING  TWENTY-FIVE  HOURS  A  DAY 

in  the  middle  of  the  day  to  look  at  anything  so  free 
from  complications  as  a  "view."  My  factory  was 
within  ten  minutes'  walk;  there,  penned  up  amidst 
dirt  and  noise,  I  spend  most  of  my  waking  hours, 
discussing  ways  and  means  by  which  I  may  increase 
the  distance  between  myself  and  the  sheriff,  and 
neglecting  the  beauty  which  unfolds  itself  at  my  very 
door.  I  determined  in  future  to  open  my  eyes  oc- 
casionally ;  but  hunger  put  an  end  to  my  meditations. 
Food  is  required  even  on  the  most  perfect  day;  by 
this  time  the  literati  must  have  met  —  and  parted. 
Back  to  the  city  we  sped,  lunched  at  my  club,  thence 
to  "Lynnewood  Hall,"  the  palatial  residence  of  Mr. 
Widener,  some  miles  from  the  centre  of  the  city. 

On  our  arrival  we  were  ushered,  through  the  main 
entrance-hall,  beautifully  banked  with  rare  flowers, 
into  the  gallery  in  which  is  housed  one  of  the  finest  col- 
lections of  pictures  in  America.  Bennett  and  George 
Hellman  were  already  there,  and  Mr.  Widener,  the 
old  gentleman  who  had  formed  the  collection,  was 
doing  the  honors.  Harry,  his  grandson,  was  there,  too, 
and,  to  the  amazement  of  Bennett,  welcomed  me 
with  outstretched  arms.  "I  got  your  telephone  mes- 
sage, but  too  late  to  connect  with  you ;  I  've  been  in 
New  York.  Why  did  you  not  come  to  lunch  ?  You 
were  not  at  your  office.  I  left  messages  for  you  every- 
where." 

Bennett  looked  greatly  relieved:  so  I  was  not  an 
intruder  after  all,  and,  wonderful  to  relate,  nothing 
had  happened  to  Craig. 

Mr.  Widener  seemed  relieved  to  see  me,  and  I  soon 


LIVING  TWENTY-FIVE  HOURS  A  DAY    193 

understood  the  reason.  He  did  not  know  who  his 
guest  was.  "  Who  is  this  man  ?  "  he  whispered  to  me. 

"Arnold  Bennett,  the  distinguished  English  au- 
thor," I  replied. 

"Does  he  know  anything  about  pictures?'*  he 
asked. 

"I  have  no  doubt  he  does,"  I  replied.  "Here  is  a 
man  who  certainly  does." 

I  presented  Craig  who,  to  the  great  relief  of  his 
host,  was  vocal.  And  then  I  saw  how  things  had 
been  going.  Bennett,  with  his  almost  uncanny  power 
of  observation,  had  seen  and  doubtless  understood 
and  appreciated  everything  in  the  gallery,  but  had 
remained  mute ;  an  "Oh  !"  or  an  "  Ah !"  had  been  all 
that  Mr.  Widener  had  been  able  to  extract  from  him. 
The  old  gentleman  had  seemingly  been  playing  to  an 
empty  house,  and  it  irked  him.  Craig  had  the  gift  of 
expression ;  knew  that  he  was  looking  at  some  of  the 
masterpieces  of  the  world,  and  said  so. 

We  strolled  from  one  gallery  to  another,  and  then 
it  was  suggested  that  perhaps  we  would  care  to  see  — 
But  the  afternoon  was  going ;  the  party  had  to  be  in 
New  York  at  a  certain  hour ;  it  was  time  to  move  on. 

"Spend  another  night  in  Philadelphia,"  I  said  to 
Craig;  "you  must  not  go  without  seeing  Harry's 
books.  After  a  while,  there  will  be  tea  and  toast  and 
marmalade  and  Scotch  and  soda;  life  will  never  be 
any  better  than  it  is  at  this  minute." 

Craig  did  not  require  much  urging.  Why  should 
he?  We  were  honored  guests  in  one  of  the  finest 
houses  in  the  country,  in  a  museum,  in  fact,  filled  to 


194    LIVING  TWENTY-FIVE  HOURS  A  DAY 

overflowing  with  everything  that  taste  could  suggest 
and  money  buy ;  and  for  host  we  had  the  eldest  son  of 
the  eldest  son  of  the  house,  a  young  man  distinguished 
for  his  knowledge,  modesty,  and  courtesy.  We  went 
to  Harry's  apartment,  where  his  books  were  kept,  and 
where  I  was  most  of  all  at  home.  Finally  his  mother 
joined  us.  In  the  easy  give-and-take  of  conversation 
time  passed  rapidly,  and  finally  it  was  time  to  go,  and 
we  said  good-bye.  It  was  my  last  visit  to  "Lynne- 
wood  Hall"  as  Harry's  guest.  Five  months  later, 
almost  to  a  day,  he  found  his  watery  grave  in  the 
Atlantic,  a  victim  of  the  sinking  of  the  Titanic. 

On  our  way  back  to  our  hotel,  we  agreed  that  we 
would  go  to  the  theatre  and  have  supper  afterward ; 
there  was  just  time  to  change,  once  again  gnawing  a 
sandwich.  By  great  good  fortune  there  was  a  real 
comedy  playing  at  one  of  the  theatres;  seats  were 
secured  without  unusual  difficulty,  and  we  were  soon 
quietly  awaiting  the  rise  of  the  curtain.  After  the 
performance  we  had  supper,  which  had  been  ordered 
in  advance.  We  were  at  the  end  of  a  perfect  day,  a 
red-letter  day,  a  day  never  to  be  forgotten,  Craig 
said.  We  had  known  each  other  something  like 
twenty-four  hours,  yet  we  seemed  like  old  friends. 

"I  can't  hope  to  give  you  such  a  day  as  we  have 
had,  when  you  come  to  London,  but  you'll  look  me 
up,  won't  you?" 

"Yes,  of  course,  and  meanwhile  I  want  you  to  do 
something  for  me." 

"Anything,  my  dear  boy;  what  is  it?" 

"I  want  a  presentation  copy  of  'Buried  Alive'  with 


11 


H   «. 


LIVING  TWENTY-FIVE  HOURS  A  DAY    195 

an  inscription  in  it  from  Arnold  Bennett,  and  on  a 
fly-leaf  I  want  a  little  pencil  sketch  by  you." 
"Righto,  I'll  send  it  directly  I  get  to  New  York." 
But  I  had  to  wait  several  days  before  I  received  a 
small  package  by  express,  which,  on  opening,  I  found 
to  be  a  beautiful  little  water-color  painting  by  Craig 
of  the  picturesque  old  stone  bridge  over  the  Thames 
at  Sonning !  and  in  another  package,  the  book, 
"Buried  Alive,"  with  a  characteristic  inscription. 
The  author  was  doubtful  of  my  identity  to  the  last, 
for  he  wrote :  "To  Mr.  Newton  of  Philadelphia,  I  be- 
lieve, with  best  wishes  from  Arnold  Bennett." 


XI 

A  SANE  VIEW  OF  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

FOR  a  long  time  I  hesitated  over  this  title.  It  is 
very  daring,  and  it  may  be  misleading.  Who  shall 
say  that  I  am  sane  and  that  William  Blake  was  not  ? 
The  fact  that  the  policeman  on  the  street-corner 
leaves  me  unmolested,  and  that  the  president  of  my 
bank  receives  me  politely  when  I  call  upon  him, 
proves  nothing.  I  am  not  deceived  by  the  fact  that 
the  pastor  of  my  church  —  I  have  n't  a  church,  and 
if  I  had,  it  would  n't  have  a  pastor  —  nods  pleas- 
antly when  we  meet.  Nor  is  the  statement  of  my 
friends,  that  I  am  mad,  convincing  —  least  of  all,  to 
me.  Most  of  our  friends  are  mad,  but  they  are  not 
dangerous.  To  say  that  a  man  is  mad  is  merely  a 
way  we  have  of  saying  that  his  opinion  does  not 
coincide  with  ours,  that  is  all.  The  question,  Was 
Blake  mad?  has  been  too  much  stressed;  it  is  not 
important;  certainly  he  was  not  more  mad  than 
many  who  have  written  about  him.  Let  us  leave  the 
question  for  later  discussion ;  it  may  be  that  we  shall 
not  return  to  it ;  it  may  be  that  our  paper,  or  your 
patience,  will  give  out  first. 

Let  me  begin  again.  It  is  now  almost,  if  not  quite, 
thirty-five  years  ago  that,  in  company  with  one  of  my 
oldest  friends,  the  Reverend  Lawrence  B.  Ridgley,  I 
visited  Walden  Pond,  and  as  was  then  the  custom, — 


WILLIAM  BLAKE 
From  frontispiece  to  Blair's  Grave 


A  SANE  VIEW  OF  WILLIAM  BLAKE       197 

and  may  still  be,  for  aught  I  know, —  threw  a  stone 
upon  the  pile  which  marks  the  spot  on  which  Thoreau 
built  his  hut,  in  which  he  lived  for  something  over 
two  years.  The  throwing  of  the  stone  was  an  act  of 
reverence ;  in  an  instant  it  was  not  recognizable :  it 
was  just  one  more  stone,  not  increasing  perceptibly 
the  size  of  the  pile ;  but  the  fact  that  I  had  added  a 
stone  gave  me  pleasure,  and  this  paper  on  William 
Blake  may  properly  be  regarded  as  another  tiny  stone 
erected  to  his  honor.  It  can  chiefly  affect  one  person 
only,  namely,  the  writer.  I  can  neither  add  to  nor 
detract  from  Blake's  fame. 

Nor  have  I  any  theory  to  propound  in  regard  to  the 
so-called  prophetic  or  mystical  books;  I  have  read 
most  of  them  with  such  care  as  I  could,  but  they 
have  made  no  lasting  impression  on  my  mind.  I 
come  to  the  surface  gasping  for  breath,  confused, 
bewildered,  and  convinced  that  any  literary  merit 
they  may  have  is  not  worth  the  effort  required  in  at- 
tempting to  comprehend  the  thoughts, —  if  thoughts 
they  are, —  so  involved,  so  contradictory,  so  curiously 
strung  together,  and  dealing  with  the  personification 
of  emotions  rather  than  with  ideas.  That  these  emo- 
tions masquerade  under  uncouth  names,  hard  to  pro- 
nounce and  troublesome  to  remember,  only  adds  to 
my  difficulty,  and  having  said  this  much,  let  me  say 
that  I,  for  one,  would  not  have  them  different :  their 
very  obscurity  only  adds  to  their  interest.  As  works 
of  art,  to  which  tags  of  some  sort  must  be  given,  they 
are  just  what  is  indicated. 

The  mythology  that  Blake  created  was,  so  to  speak, 


198       A  SANE  VIEW  OF  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

the  overflow,  the  waste  product,  of  his  mind,  and  may 
be  regarded  as  relatively  unimportant.  We  should 
look  at  the  pages  of  "Urizen,"  "Thel,"  "Milton," 
"America,"  "Europe,"  and  the  rest,  as  the  greatest 
works  of  art  produced  in  England  and  among  the 
greatest  in  the  world,  and  let  us  not  seek  to  know  too 
much.  When  we  look  at  Rodin's  statue,  The  Thinker, 
we  do  not  ask,  "  WTiat  was  he  thinking  of  ?"  we  bend 
the  knee.  In  like  manner,  let  us  bow  in  reverence 
before  these  great  works  of  Blake's  imagination.  I 
am  not  sympathetic  with  explanations  which  only 
increase  our  bewilderment.  To  be  told  that  every 
gesture,  every  pose,  has  a  meaning,  detracts  from  my 
enjoyment.  I  have  tried  to  be  sympathetic  with  the 
views  held  by  some  of  his  admirers,  but  without  suc- 
cess. If  the  right  leg  of  Palamabron  or  Urizen  is  ad- 
vanced, benign  spirits  are  in  the  ascendant :  if  Rahab 
raises  her  left  arm,  evil  spirits  have  sway,  you  tell  me. 
Here  we  part  company.  It  may  be  so ;  I  do  not  know, 
I  do  not  care ;  with  Browning,  I  would  say,  — 
Did  Shakespeare  so,  then  the  less  Shakespeare  he. 
I  am  treading  on  delicate  ground.  Here,  you  see, 
the  personal  equation  comes  in.  I  am  not  a  student 
or  a  mystic,  but  a  twentieth-century  man  of  affairs, 
a  manufacturer  of  electrical  machinery,  having  prob- 
lems of  my  own  to  solve  which  leave  me  little  time  to 
deal  with  the  anfractuosities  —  this  was  a  favorite 
word  of  my  friend  Dr.  Johnson — of  the  minds  of  the 
critics.  For  them  the  earth  trembles  and  the  sky  is 
overcast.  I  am  not  of  their  world ;  their  atmosphere 
I  cannot  breathe.  I  see  lightning  but  no  light,  smoke 


A  SANE  VIEW  OF  WILLIAM  BLAKE       199 

but  no  fire ;  I  grasp  nothing.  Even  Swinburne,  pos- 
sessed of  a  most  far-fetched  if  not  actually  unsound 
judgment,  admits  that  he  cannot  always  understand ; 
and  to  the  destination  at  which  Swinburne  fails  to 
arrive,  I  am  reluctant  to  set  out. 

But  it  is  time  for  me  to  begin.  Dr.  Johnson  pub- 
lished his  great  dictionary  in  1755.  Two  years  later, 
near  Golden  Square  in  London,  William  Blake  was 
born.  There  is  no  relation  between  the  two  events 
other  than  that  they  both  took  place  in  pretty  nearly 
the  dead  centre  of  the  eighteenth  century. 

Some  would  say  that  the  words  "dead  centre"  are 
particularly  applicable  to  the  period  under  discussion. 
Pope  was  dead.  He  died  in  1744,  and  few  would  have 
had  the  temerity  to  inform  Dr.  Johnson  that  poetry 
was  dead,  too.  In  conversation  with  Boswell,  he  said, 
"Sir,  a  thousand  years  may  elapse  before  there  shall 
appear  another  poet  like  Pope."  My  friend  Amy 
Lowell  would  doubtless  exclaim,  "Let  us  hope  so!" 
But  to  Dr.  Johnson,  Pope  and  poetry  were  synony- 
mous terms. 

In  these  days  of  many  small  reputations  and  no 
single  dominating  figure,  it  is  difficult  for  us  to  under- 
stand the  immense  vogue  and  following  of  a  poet  who 
could  write  such  a  couplet  as 

Why  has  not  man  a  microscopic  eye  ? 
For  this  plain  reason  —  man  is  not  a  fly. 

But  Pope,  if  he  had  little  sweetness,  certainly  com- 
pacted wisdom  in  a  most  extraordinary  manner. 

Know  then  thyself,  presume  not  God  to  scan ; 
The  proper  study  of  mankind  is  man. 


200      A  SANE  VIEW  OF  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

Lines  from  Pope  —  or  perhaps  it  would  be  more 
exact  to  say,  couplets  —  intrude  themselves  on  us 
unconsciously.  Bartlett  has  page  after  page  of  quo- 
tations from  Pope,  and  from  Blake  not  a  single  one ; 
and  Pope's  poetry,  which  so  delighted  Dr.  Johnson 
that  he  said,  "If  Pope  is  not  a  poet,  it  is  useless  to 
look  for  one,"  is  largely  typical  of  the  verse  that  dis- 
tinguished the  eighteenth  century.  I  do  not  forget 
Gray,  but  it  was  reserved  for  a  later  period  fully  to 
appreciate  the  author  of  the  "Elegy  Wrote1  in  a 
Country  Churchyard."  If  you  think  that  I  detain 
you  unnecessarily  with  these  details,  it  is  because  the 
background  against  which  Blake  appeared,  and  the 
nature  of  his  surroundings,  are  most  important  for 
any  appreciation  of  him. 

Blake's  father  was  a  small  but  respectable  trades- 
man —  a  Dissenter,  probably  a  Swedenborgian.  His 
son  received  little  or  no  education  and  was  early 
apprenticed  to  an  engraver,  one  Basire,  from  whom 
he  learned  his  trade.  We  hear  of  him  making  draw- 
ings of  the  statues  and  monuments  in  Westminster 
Abbey,  and  we  know  that  he  was  influenced  all  his 
life  by  these  studies  and  that  he  preferred  to  draw 
from  the  artistic  abominations  in  the  Abbey  rather 
than  from  life ;  this  explains  much. 

A  perfectly  proportioned  male  or  female  figure  had 
little  charm  for  Blake,  if  one  can  judge  from  those  he 
drew.  He  could  not  see  what  we  see,  but,  on  the 

1  The  word  "Wrote"  is  indicative  of  the  first  edition,  which  is  now 
worth  five  thousand  dollars.  When  "wrote"  became  "written,"  as  it 
did  in  the  later  editions,  the  value  sinks  to  a  few  shillings. 


SAMUEL,  SAUL  AND  THE  WITCH  OF  ENDOR 

(1  SAMUEL  Xxviii,  12-21) 
From  original  painting.   No.  149  of  the  W.  M.  Rossetti  Catalogue 


A  SANE  VIEW  OF  WILLIAM  BLAKE      201 

other  hand,  we  cannot  see  what  he  saw ;  and  who  of 
us  shall  say  that  we  can  see  as  much  as  Blake  ?  His 
figures  are,  for  the  most  part,  out  of  drawing,  exag- 
gerated, usually  elongated.  If  a  man  or  woman 
crouching  on  the  ground  should  suddenly  stand  up, 
he,  or  she,  would  stand  seven  feet  tall.  Yet  he  is  not 
a  caricaturist,  as  my  words  might  suggest ;  for  some- 
how, somewhere,  he  learned  to  develop  his  mind,  his 
imagination,  so  that,  if  he  ever  remained  eccentric  as 
a  draughtsman  and  dry  and  hard  as  an  engraver,  he 
became  the  greatest  imaginative  artist  that  England 
ever  produced. 

England  is  supreme  in  poetry  rather  than  in  paint- 
ing. The  average  Englishman,  if  he  cares  for  painting 
at  all,  outside  of  portraiture,  wishes  a  picture  that 
tells  a  story ;  and  the  sillier  the  story,  the  better  he 
likes  it.  I  chanced  to  see  in  the  window  of  a  shop  not 
long  ago  a  picture  that  illustrates  what  I  mean.  A 
simpering  woman,  without  a  stitch  of  clothes  on,  was 
coming  down  a  short  flight  of  marble  steps,  holding 
in  front  of  her  a  bit  of  red-plush  curtain.  Is  it  Susanna 
preparing  to  entice  the  elders  ?  No.  A  horse  in  the 
distance  supplies  the  clue ;  and  now  we  know  that  we 
are  playing  Peeping  Tom,  and  that  Lady  Godiva  is 
preparing  to  ride.  The  picture  is  characteristic  of 
English  art  at  its  very  worst;  as  yet  Blake  has  in- 
fluenced it  very  little.  But  listen  to  an  extract  from 
a  letter  which  I  received  a  few  months  ago  from 
Japan. 

"A  friend  is  asking  me  to  send  you  a  copy  of  my 
book  on  William  Blake.  It  is  not  a  small  pleasure  for 


202       A  SANE  VIEW  OF  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

ine  if  I  could  add  my  humble  book  to  your  splendid 
collection  of  Blake's  original  works.  The  book,  which 
appeared  in  1914,  however,  has  been  all  sold  out  and 
is  out  of  print,  and  I  can  get  it  neither  from  the  pub- 
lisher nor  from  the  bookshops,  and  it  becomes  almost 
impossible  to  obtain  it  even  in  the  second-hand. 
Only  one  copy  of  it  is  left  in  my  hands  now.  But  the 
second  enlarged  edition,  at  which  I  am  engaging  now, 
will  appear  by  the  end  of  this  year,  so  I  decided  to 
send  the  latter  to  you.  Perhaps  you  will  be  surprised 
if  you  understand  that  Blake,  who  has  been  neglected 
so  long  by  his  countrymen,  is  now  one  of  the  most 
favorite  artists  in  our  young  public  here  in  Japan." 

But  this  is  a  digression. 

Blake,  when  he  was  twenty-five  years  old,  married 
Catherine  Boucher,  a  girl  poorer  than  himself  and  of 
no  education  whatever.  At  the  time  of  their  marriage 
she  was  unable  either  to  read  or  write.  Enough  has 
been  said :  they  lived  happily  together,  she  merged 
her  life  in  his,  and  his  work  constituted  his  life. 
Never  was  genius  more  industrious ;  whether  in  Lon- 
don, or  in  Lambeth,  or  in  Felpham  with  his  friend 
Hayley,  never  was  he  for  a  minute  idle.  It  is  one 
thing  to  write  volume  after  volume ;  it  is  another 
thing  to  write,  illustrate,  engrave,  print,  illuminate, 
and  himself  sell  a  long  series  of  volumes  for  which  we 
should  have  to  invent  the  phrase,  "which  must  be 
seen  to  be  appreciated,"  were  it  not  already  in  use. 
It  has  been  a  great  misfortune  for  Blake's  fame,  and 
a  still  greater  misfortune  for  the  world,  that  he  must 
be  studied  in  first  editions.  During  his  lifetime  he 


A  SANE  VIEW  OF  WILLIAM  BLAKE       203 

was  almost  entirely  neglected.  After  he  died  in  1827, 
he  was  for  a  time  forgotten ;  so  much  so  that  Alex- 
ander Gilchrist,  to  whom  we  are  chiefly  indebted  for 
what  we  know  of  him,  called  him  "Pictor  Ignotus." 

Now  first  editions 
of  Blake  are  excess- 
ively rare  in  these 
days ;  their  prices 
run  into  ,  not  hun- 
dreds, but  thousands 
of  dollars.  They  can 
be  seen  only  here 
and  there,  in  muse- 
ums or  in  the  private 
collections  of  rich 
men.  That  I  have 
a  few  proves  nothing 
—  have  I  not  been 
called  mad  ?  Well, 
about  Blake,  I  am. 


POETICAL 


SKETCHES. 


W     B. 


LONDON: 

Printed  in  the  Year  M  DCC  ixxxitt. 


There  are,  to  be  sure, 

the  reprints  of  that  great  student  and  enthusiast, 
William  Muir,  who  about  thirty-five  years  ago  elect- 
ed to  bring  out,  through  Bernard  Quaritch,  a  number 
of  exquisite  facsimiles ;  but  they  were  published  in 
very  limited  editions, —  only  fifty  copies, —  they  are 
now  out  of  print  and  costly,  and  it  is  no  exagger- 
ation to  say  that  such  reproductions  of  Blake's  pages 
in  black  and  white  as  are  available  bear  the  same 
resemblance  to  the  originals  that  a  charcoal  sketch 
does  to  an  oil  painting. 


204       A  SANE  VIEW  OF  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

JBlake's  first  literary  work  was  his  "Poetical 
Sketches,"  1783  —  a  slender  volume  of  the  greatest 
poetical  significance.  It  ushered  in  a  kind  of  poetry 
unknown  since  the  immediate  followers  of  the  Eliz- 
abethans ;  and  if  you  think  of  Burns  at  this  moment, 
as  you  may,  I  would  remind  you  that  the  Kilmarnock 
edition,  the  first  edition  of  Burns,  appeared  in  1786. 

You  have  read  how  the  fakirs  in  India  put  a  little 
earth  in  a  flower-pot,  dropped  in  a  few  seeds,  covered 
the  flower-pot  with  a  paper  funnel,  made  a  few  pray- 
ers and  incantations,  removed  the  paper,  and  lo !  a 
miracle  had  been  performed  —  a  rose  tree  in  full 
bloom  was  revealed.  Such  a  miracle  was  performed 
by  William  Blake.  Out  in  the  sordid  streets  of  Soho 
he  gathered  a  nosegay  of  lyrics  such  as  had  not  blown 
in  a  century  or  more,  and  he  called  them  "Poetical 
Sketches."  This  volume,  printed  but  never  pub- 
lished, is  so  rare  that  Gilchrist  said  of  it :  "After  some 
years  of  vain  attempt  I  am  forced  to  abandon  the 
idea  of  myself  owning  the  book.  There  is,  of  course, 
none  where  at  any  rate  there  should  be  one  —  in  the 
British  Museum."  This  in  1863.  I  feel  sure  there 
is  one  there  now ;  nevertheless,  this  little  volume  is  of 
the  utmost  rarety. 

In  considering  the  poetical  work  of  Blake,  one  must 
keep  the  background  against  which  it  appeared  well 
in  mind,  and  remember  that  the  verse  in  this  slender 
volume  was  written  by  a  boy  between  his  twelfth 
and  twentieth  years.  I  shall  not  detain  you  with  the 
fragment  of  a  drama  in  blank  verse,  remarkable  as 
it  is ;  but  I  must  be  allowed  to  give  a  few  lines  from 


A.  SANE  VIEW  OF  WILLIAM  BLAKE       205 

several  lyrics,  than  which  there  are  none  finer.  The 
quantity  is  small,  but  the  quality  is  supreme. 

TO  SPRING 

O  thou,  with  dewy  locks,  who  lookest  down 
Thro '  the  clear  windows  of  the  morning ;  turn 
Thine  angel  eyes  upon  our  western  isle, 
Which  in  full  choir  hails  thy  approach,  O  Spring ! 

And  reminding  us  of  Herrick,  of  whom  I  am  sure 
Blake  never  heard,  is  his  song,  "My  silks  and  fine 
array,"  and  "I  love  the  jocund  dance";  and  then 
his  fourteen-line  poem, —  it  is  not  a  sonnet, — which 
reads,  in  part :  — 

TO  THE  EVENING  STAR 

Thou  fair-hair'd  angel  of  the  evening, 
Now,  whilst  the  sun  rests  on  the  mountains,  light 
Thy  bright  torch  of  love ;  thy  radiant  crown 
Put  on,  and  smile  upon  our  evening  bed  ! 
Smile  on  our  loves ;  and,  while  thou  drawest  the 
Blue  curtains  of  the  sky,  scatter  thy  silver  dew 
On  every  flower  that  shuts  its  sweet  eyes 
In  timely  sleep.     Let  thy  west  wind  sleep  on 
The  lake ;  speak  silence  with  thy  glimmering  eyes, 
And  wash  the  dusk  with  silver. 

But  you  will  not,  I  am  sure,  long  wish  to  see  a 
middle-aged  book-collector  washing  the  dusk  with 
silver  or,  indeed,  with  anything  else.  But  how  many 
were  there  who,  in  1783,  took  this  for  poetry?  The 
non-success  of  this  volume  made  it  difficult,  if  not 
impossible,  for  Blake  to  secure  a  publisher  for  his 
next  volume,  and  this  fact  influenced  his  entire  life. 

We  now  come  to  the  "Songs  of  Innocence"  (1789), 
and  to  the  "Songs  of  Experience"  (1794),  of  some- 


206       A  SANE  VIEW  OF  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

what  lesser  merit.  In  regard  to  these,  I  have  a 
theory;  namely,  that  Blake  got  his  inspiration,  or 
rather  the  idea  of  writing  these  lovely  verses,  from  a 
paragraph  in  Dr.  Watt's  "Divine  Songs."  He  must 
have  known  that  remarkable  book,  of  which  its  careful 
bibliographer,  Wilbur  Macey  Stone,  asserts  that  over 
five  hundred  editions  have  been  printed  in  England 
and  America.  I  was  examining  some  time  ago  a 
presentation  copy  of  the  first  edition  of  this  exces- 
sively rare  little  book  —  it  was  published  in  1715  and 
only  two  copies  are  known  —  in  the  Pierpont  Morgan 
Library,  under  the  watchful  eye  of  Miss  Thurston, 
who  presides  over  the  English  books  in  this  wonderful 
collection, —  Miss  Greene  busying  herself  with  some 
such  matter  as  Coptic  manuscripts  the  while !  — 
when  this  paragraph  met  my  eye.  Referring  to  the 
slight  character  of  the  "Divine  Songs,"  Dr.  Watts 
said :  "I  wish  some  happy  and  condescending  genius 
would  undertake  [to  write]  for  the  use  of  children  and 
perform  much  better  [than  I  have  been  able  to  do]." 
Here  then,  if  I  am  not  at  fault,  in  such  verses  as  "  Let 
dogs  delight  to  bark  and  bite,"  and  "How  doth  the 
little  busy  bee,"  Blake  found  the  raw  material  which 
his  "happy  and  condescending  genius"  transmuted 
into  such  exquisite  verses  as  "Little  Lamb,  who  made 
thee?"  and  "Tiger,  tiger,  burning  bright." 

Be  this  as  it  may,  Blake  wrote  his  songs  with  so 
much  genius  that  no  publisher  would  touch  them, 
and  we  owe  the  Blake  that  we  know  best  to  the  fact 
that  he  decided  to  become  his  own  publisher.  Let 
me  tell  the  story  over  again  of  how  a  vision  came  to 


A  SANE  VIEW  OF  WILLIAM  BLAKE       207 

him  in  the  night,  and  revealed  to  him  a  method  by 
which  he  could  produce  his  songs ;  and  fittingly  the 
first  song  so  produced  was  "The  Piper." 

Piping  down  the  valleys  wild, 

Piping  songs  of  pleasant  glee, 
On  a  cloud  I  saw  a  child, 

And  he  laughing  said  to  me  :  — 

"Pipe  a  song  about  a  lamb." 

So  I  piped  with  merry  cheer. 
"Piper,  pipe  that  song  again." 

So  I  piped ;  he  wept  to  hear. 

"Drop  thy  pipe,  thy  happy  pipe, 

Sing  thy  songs  of  happy  cheer." 
So  I  sung  the  same  again, 
While  he  wept  with  joy  to  hear. 

"Piper,  sit  thee  down  and  write 

In  a  book  that  all  may  read" — 
So  he  vanish'd  from  my  sight ; 
And  I  pluck'd  a  hollow  reed, 

And  I  made  a  rural  pen, 

And  I  stain'd  the  water  clear, 
And  I  wrote  my  happy  songs 

Every  child  may  joy  to  hear. 

The  story  is  told  by  Gilchrist  that,  sending  Mrs. 
Blake  out  with  half-a-crown,  all  he  had  in  the  world, 
he  expended  Is.  and  IQd.  for  the  simple  materials 
necessary  for  putting  into  practice  the  revelation. 

"Upon  that  investment  of  Is.  and  10d.,  he  started 
what  was  to  prove  a  principal  means  of  support 
through  his  future  life  —  the  series  of  poems  and 
writings  illustrated  by  coloured  plates,  often  highly 


208      A  SANE  VIEW  OF  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

finished  afterwards  by  hand,  which  became  the  most 
efficient  and  durable  means  of  revealing  his  genius 
to  the  world.  This  method,  to  which  he  henceforth 
consistently  adhered,  of  multiplying  his  works,  was 
quite  an  original  one.  It  consisted  in  a  species  of  en- 
graving in  relief  both  words  and  designs.  The  verse 
was  written  and  the  designs  and  marginal  embellish- 
ments outlined  on  the  copper  with  an  impervious 
liquid,  probably  the  ordinary  stopping-out  varnish 
of  engravers.  Then  all  ...  the  remainder  of  the 
plate  was  eaten  away  with  acid,  so  that  the  outline 
of  letter  and  design  was  left  prominent,  as  in  stereo- 
type. From  these  plates  he  printed  off  in  any  tint, 
yellow,  brown,  blue,  required  to  be  the  .  .  .  ground 
colour  in  his  fac-similes ;  red  he  used  for  the  letter- 
press. The  page  was  then  coloured  up  by  hand  in 
imitation  of  the  original  drawing,  with  more  or  less 
variety  of  detail  in  the  local  hues." 

May  I  give  another  song  —  still  of  innocence  ? 

THE  IAMB 

Little  lamb,  who  made  thee  ? 
Dost  thou  know  who  made  thee, 
*  Gave  thee  life  and  bid  thee  feed 

By  the  stream  and  o'er  the  mead ; 
Gave  thee  clothing  of  delight, 
Softest  clothing,  woolly,  bright ; 
Gave  thee  such  a  tender  voice 
Making  all  the  vales  rejoice  ? 

Little  lamb,  who  made  thee  ? 

Dost  thou  know  who  made  thee  ? 

Little  lamb,  I'll  tell  thee, 
Little  lamb,  I'll  tell  thee. 


•S. 


.p  fe 


A  SANE  VIEW  OF  WILLIAM  BLAKE      209 

He  is  called  by  thy  name, 
For  He  calls  himself  a  Lamb. 
He  is  meek  and  He  is  mild, 
He  became  a  little  child. 
I  a  child  and  them  a  lamb, 
We  are  called  by  His  name. 

Little  lamb,  God  bless  thee, 

Little  lamb,  God  bless  thee. 

And  one  more,  from  "  Experience,"  which  Lamb  called 
glorious,  as  indeed  it  is. 

THE  TIGER 

Tiger,  tiger,  burning  bright, 
In  the  forests  of  the  night. 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Could  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry  ? 

In  what  distant  deeps  or  skies 
Burnt  the  fire  of  thine  eyes  ? 
On  what  wings  dare  he  aspire  ? 
What  the  hand  dare  seize  the  fire  ? 

And  what  shoulder,  and  what  art, 
Could  twist  the  sinews  of  thy  heart  ? 
And  when  thy  heart  began  to  beat, 
What  dread  hand  and  what  dread  feet  ? 

What  the  hammer  ?  what  the  chain  ? 
In  what  furnace  was  thy  brain  ? 
What  the  anvil  ?  what  dread  grasp 
Dare  its  deadly  terrors  clasp  ? 

When  the  stars  threw  down  their  spears, 
And  water'd  heaven  with  their  tears, 
Did  he  smile  his  work  to  see  ? 
Did  He  who  made  the  lamb  make  thee  ? 

Tiger,  tiger,  burning  bright 
In  the  forests  of  the  night, 


210       A  SANE  VIEW  OF  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Dare  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry  ? 

There  are  to-day  no  two  opinions  as  to  these  poems : 
they  are  exquisite;  and  with  these  "Songs,"  Blake 
had,  in  my  judgment,  delivered  his  message.  What 
he  wrote  afterward, —  if  we  except  the  lovely  poem 
on  England,  which  I  forbear  to  quote,  in  the  "  Milton  " 
(1804), —  although  in  bulk  ten  times  greater  than 
what  had  gone  before,  has  little  value.  Published  in 
the  same  manner  as  the  "Songs,"  and  growing  more 
elaborate  as  Blake  came  to  feel  more  at  home  with 
the  medium  he  had  chosen,  his  prophetic  or  mystical 
books  are  supreme  as  works  of  art.  Of  some  of  them 
very  few  copies  are  known,  and  no  two  copies  are 
alike,  for  the  reason  that,  after  an  impression  had 
been  pulled  from  the  copper  plate  in  some  color,  like 
dull  red  or  brown,  they  were  worked  over  by  hand, 
tints  and  backgrounds  were  added.  In  some  cases, 
where  Blake  had  secured  a  generous  or  opulent  cus- 
tomer, gold  and  brilliant  colors  were  used  so  freely 
that  the  text  is  greatly  obscured,  and  one  almost  for- 
gets that  the  lovely  work  of  art  before  him  was  in- 
tended to  be  read  as  a  printed  page  as  well  as  studied 
as  a  picture.  For  this  reason  his  books  are  difficult 
to  describe  or  to  evaluate.  Another  difficulty  is  that 
they  are  scattered  broadcast  over  the  world,  and  a 
man  writing  on  Blake  in  London  would  be  crippled 
without  the  knowledge  that  would  be  afforded  by 
consulting  the  great  private  collections  of  this  coun- 
try; in  like  manner,  a  man  writing  here  would  be 
helpless  unless  he  had  studied  the  treasures  in  the 


-2  I 
05  ^ 


British  Museum,  the  Tait  Gallery,  and  such  private 
collections  as  Captain  Stirling's  and  Mr.  Graham 
Robertson's. 

Collectors  are  awaiting  with  the  keenest  interest 
the  publication  of  a  Blake  bibliography,  which,  it  is 
an  open  secret,  is  being  prepared  by  my  friend  Mr. 
Geoffrey  Keynes,  of  London,  for  the  Grolier  Club. 
It  will  no  doubt  settle  many  controversial  points  — 
and  as  certainly  raise  many  others  which  supposedly 
had  been  settled  years  ago. 

Blake's  prophetic  books  so-called,  can  be  read,  I 
contend,  only  as  task-work,  or  by  the  enthusiast  seek- 
ing, as  the  old  colored  preacher  said,  to  unscrew  the 
unscrewable.  To  them  largely  is  due  the  prevalent 
belief  that  Blake  was  unsound  in  mind,  if  not  actu- 
ally mad.  Throughout  them,  and  here  and  there  in 
his  writings,  are  curious  little  couplets  or  jingles,  epi- 
grams and  the  like,  which  might  have  come  from  the 
pen  of  Benjamin  Franklin  —  of  all  men  in  the  world  ! 

I  was  angry  with  my  friend, 

I  told  my  wrath,  my  wrath  did  end. 

I  was  angry  with  my  foe, 

I  told  it  not,  my  wrath  did  grow. 

Or 

A  truth  that's  told  with  bad  intent 
Beats  all  the  lies  you  can  invent. 

Or  the  line  that  Margot  has  placed  on  the  title-page 
of  her  autobiography :  "  Prudence  is  a  rich  ugly  old 
maid  wooed  by  incapacity."  In  "The  Marriage  of 
Heaven  and  Hell,"  Blake  has  several  pages  of  these 
curious  proverbs. 


212       A  SANE  VIEW  OF  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

My  own  interest  in  Blake  dates  from  1893,  during 
which  year  Herbert  Gilchrist,  the  son  of  the  man  to 
whom  all  Blake  lovers  are  so  greatly  indebted,  came 
to  Philadelphia  and  exhibited  at  our  Academy  of  the 
Fine  Arts  a  large  and  thoroughly  bad  picture  of 
Cleopatra.  Not  to  digress  needlessly,  I  saw  a  good 
deal  of  him,  and  purchased  from  him  several  small 
Blake  sketches,  notably  one  which  William  Michael 
Rossetti  refers  to  in  his  "Descriptive  Catalogue," 
Death  and  Hell  teem  with  Life ;  and  about  that  time 
I  got  into  correspondence  with  William  Linnell,  the 
son  of  the  man  who  did  so  much  to  keep  Blake's 
body  and  soul  together  during  the  last  years  of  his 
life,  relative  to  a  set  of  proofs  I  had  purchased  of 
Blake's  last,  and  by  many  regarded  as  his  greatest, 
work,  his  illustrations  of  the  Book  of  Job.  At  the 
Buxton  Forman  sale  in  New  York  several  winters 
ago,  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  secure  the  ten  original 
India-ink  sketches,  six  of  which  appeared  in  the  first 
edition  of  Mary  Wollstonecraft's  "Original  Stories 
From  Real  Life,  with  Conversations  calculated  to 
Regulate  the  Affections  and  Form  the  Mind  to  Truth 
and  Goodness"  —  as  the  title  goes.  The  frontispiece 
is  characteristically  Blakian,  and  is  a  good  example  of 
the  curiously  elongated  figure  of  which  Blake  was  so 
fond.  As  these  plates  were  engraved  as  well  as  de- 
signed by  him,  it  will  be  interesting  to  give  several 
reproductions  side  by  side. 

WTiat  difference  does  it  make  that  these  drawings, 
like  so  much  of  Blake's  work,  are  out  of  focus.  It 
would  have  been  an  easy  thing  for  the  artist  to 


WHEN  THE  MORNING  STARS  SANG  TOGETHER 
From  a  photograph  taken  from  the  original  drawing  for  this  publication.     Neier  before  photographed 


ORIGINAL   STORIES 


LIFEi 


CONVERSATIONS, 


A  SANE  VIEW  OF  WILLIAM  BLAKE       213 

represent  the  human  body  with  reasonable  perfection, 
but  he  was  more  interested  in  the  idea  that  his  work 
suggests  than  in  technical  accuracy.  In  other  words, 
he  drew  for  the  mind  rather  than  for  the  eye. 

In  the  course  of 
years  I  came  to  have 
most  of  the  impor- 
tant books  about 
Blake,  and  gradually 
the  less  important 
and  expensive  books 
for  which  he  designed 
or  engraved  the  illus- 
trations. Finally,  a 
fine  copy  of  the 
"Songs"  came  my 
way,  followed  by  a 
' '  Marriage  of  Heaven 
and  Hell."  Just 
about  this  time  Mr. 
Huntington  became 
interested  and  I  side- 
stepped, quickly ;  for 
when  Mr.  Hunting- 
ton  takes  up  a  sub- 
ject, it  is  a  case  of 
"all  hope  abandon."  When  his  appetite  was 
momentarily  appeased,  I  ventured  into  the  open 
again ;  and  about  that  time  Mr.  Herschel  V.  Jones's 
books  came  on  the  market.  I  felt  that  I  was  going 
to  succumb  to  temptation ;  I  tried  to  steady  myself, 


REGULATE  THE  AFFECTIONS, 


FORM    THE    MIND 


TRUTH    AKO    GOODNESS. 
BY  MARY  WOLLSTONECRAFT. 


I  Q  N  D  ON: 

rilHTID     rOK     J.    JOHNSOH,     NO. 
PAUt'i    CHUlCH-TAtD. 


214       A  SANE  VIEW  OF  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

but  came  down  with  a  crash.  I  think  Mitchell 
Kennerley  was  to  some  extent  responsible  for  my 
fall,  because  in  his  private  office  he  called  my  partic- 
ular attention  to  the  "Gates  of  Paradise,"  talked 

learnedly  about  the  "Keys 
to  the  Gates,"  in  Mr. 
White's  possession,  showed 
me  the  "America,"  "Eu- 
rope," and  "Thel,"  and, 
hi  brief,  stimulated  me  be- 
yond endurance.  I  feared 
John  L.  Clawson  of  Buf- 
falo, feared  and  hated  him ; 
but  he  was  momentarily 
engaged  with  Restoration 
dramatists,  and  that's  a 
subject  well  calculated  to 
keep  one's  mind  occupied 
and  one's  purse  empty,  as 
even  he  knows.  Finally  the 
day  of  the  sale  came  :  luck 
was  with  me,  and  when  the  smoke  of  battle  cleared 
away,  I  had  as  nice  a  little  cluster  of  Blakes  as  any  man 
may  hope  to  see.  But  my  bank  account  was  a  ruin. 
On  the  wall  just  opposite  my  desk  hangs  a  fine  copy 
of  Blake's  Canterbury  Pilgrims.  No  finer  story 
was  ever  told  than  that  of  the  Pilgrims  setting  out 
from  the  Tabard  Inn  for  the  shrine  of  Thomas  a 
Becket  at  Canterbury.  It  is  an  epitome  of  the  life 
of  the  time,  and  Stothard's  painting  was  exhibited 
far  and  near,  and  was  deservedly  popular,  whereas 


JVxnfrJ  I  want! 


THE  MOON 

From  a  tiny  and  very  rare  plate  by  Wil- 
liam Blake.  From  the  "  Gate*  of  Paradise." 


ONE  OF  THE  FAMOUS  PLATES  IN  BLAKE'S  BOOK  OF  JOB 
Printed  for  comparison  with  the  reproduction  from  the  original  draining 


A  SANE  VIEW  OF  WILLIAM  BLAKE       215 

poor  Blake,  whose  idea  it  originally  was,  found  his  pic- 
ture scoffed  at. l  Few  persons  came  to  his  little  exhibi- 
tion and  bought  for  half  a  crown  (which  also  included 
admission)  his  "Descriptive  Catalogue";  still  fewer 
paid  the  four-guinea  subscription  for  the  engraved 
plate.  The  failure  of  the  enterprise  would  have 
broken  the  artist's  heart,  had  his  heart  been  of  the 
breaking  kind. 

Notwithstanding  its  faulty  technique,  the  engrav- 
ing makes  a  strong  intellectual  appeal.  It  has  a  medi- 
aeval look,  in  keeping  with  the  subject;  and  Lamb, 
with  unerring  taste,  preferred  it  to  the  more  popular 
picture  by  Stothard.  Time  works  wonders  in  mat- 

1  My  copy  was  a  Christmas  present  from  my  wife  several  years  ago. 
It  came  about  in  this  way.  My  Blake  enthusiasm  was  by  this  time 
no  longer  a  secret.  It  was  Christmas  eve ;  my  wife,  faithful  soul,  had 
been  decorating  a  Christmas  tree  in  one  of  our  city  squares  for  the 
fatherless  children  of  France.  It  had  been,  and  was,  raining ;  she  was 
wet,  cold,  disheveled,  and  discouraged.  Suddenly  it  occurred  to  her : 
"Why,  I've  bought  no  presents  for  the  family;  we  shall  have  no 
Christmas  at  home  —  no  wreaths,  no  tree,  nothing."  It  was  growing 
dark ;  there  was  no  time  to  lose.  In  a  few  moments,  with  armlets  of 
Christmas  wreaths,  some  parcels,  and  a  dripping  umbrella,  she  pre- 
sented herself  at  the  door  of  the  Rosenbach  Galleries  in  Walnut  Street, 
and  inquired  for  my  friend,  the  doctor.  "I  think  he's  busy,"  wisely 
observed  the  boy  at  the  door,  not  liking  the  appearance  of  the  cus- 
tomer, and  reaching  out  his  hand  for  her  umbrella.  "No  doubt  he 
is,"  was  her  reply,  "but  he  will  see  me  for  a  moment.  — Doctor,  I 
want  a  present  for  Mr.  Newton,  something  handsome,  something  he 
wants."  — "I  have  the  very  thing,"  said  Rosy.  (Of  course  he  had,  he 
always  has.)  "This,"  he  continued,  "is  just  what  he  wants  for  his 
Blake  collection  :  it's  a  magnificent  proof  on  India  paper  of  The  Can- 
terbury Pilgrims;  it's  expensive,  but  very  rare." — "I  don't  care 
about  the  price,  for  I  shall  hand  the  bill  to  him  when  it  comes  in." 
(This  to  Rosy  of  all  men ;  the  most  astute  bandit  out  of  Wall  Street !) 
And  that's  how  this  rare  engraving  comes  to  hang  right  alongside 
Stothard's  print  on  the  same  subject,  which  came  from  the  Halsey 
collection. 


216      A  SANE  VIEW  OF  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

ters  of  art,  as  in  other  things.  Stothard  is  by  way  of 
being  forgotten,  while  Blake  has  at  last  come  into 
his  own. 

By  1808  Blake  was  practically  through  with  his 
prophetic  books,  and  was  busying  himself  making 
sketches  illustrating  Blair's  "Grave."  It  was  his 
intention  to  cut  the  plates  himself,  but  in  some  way 
the  original  designs  passed  into  the  possession  of  one 
Cromek,  an  art  publisher,  who  thought  that  the 
artist  was  sufficiently  recompensed  by  the  payment 
of  a  guinea  and  a  half  each  for  these  magnificent 
drawings.  Cromek  employed  the  graceful  and  pop- 
ular engraver,  Schiavonetti,  to  engrave  the  plates, 
and  the  publication  was  very  successful;  but  poor 
Blake,  defrauded  of  his  work,  made  nothing  by  its 
success.  He  has  pilloried  the  publisher  for  all  time 
in  the  couplet :  — 

A  petty,  sneaking  knave  I  knew : 
Oh,  Mr.  Cromek !  how  do  you  do  ? 

Another  work,  of  less  merit,  but  of  value  as  evi- 
dence of  Blake's  immense  industry  and  originality,  is 
the  series  of  designs  for  Young's  "Night  Thoughts." 
The  original  drawings  are  in  the  possession  of  my 
friend  Mr.  W.  A.  White  of  New  York.  They  num- 
ber 537,  and  were  completed,  with  much  other  work, 
in  two  years  !  What  imagination  !  Wliat  industry ! 

We  now  come  to  his  Illustrations  of  the  Book  of 
Job,  which  is  perhaps  the  best  known  of  all  his  works. 
These  "inventions,"  as  he  called  them,  were  en- 
graved on  copper  by  the  artist  himself,  somewhat 
smaller  in  size  than  the  original  drawings,  which  are 


a  g 

§4 

i? 

H     § 


A  SANE  VIEW  OF  WILLIAM  BLAKE      217 

in  the  most  delicate  and  exquisite  water-color.  There 
are  two  sets  of  these  drawings ;  how  many  people 
have  seen  either  of  them  ?  As  the  Grolier  Club  Cat- 
alogue of  the  Blake  Exhibition  of  1905,  in  speaking 
of  the  set  first  made,  says,  "There  is  something 
pathetic  in  the  picture  of  this  solitary,  unappreciated 
old  man  (he  was  now  well  on  to  seventy  years  of  age) 
at  work  upon  the  noble  story  of  Job  and  his  suffer- 
ings." Both  sets  of  drawings  are  now  in  this  coun- 
try :  the  original  set  finally  passed  from  the  Earl  of 
Crewe's  collection  into  Mr.  Morgan's  library,  and 
the  replicas  are  at  this  moment  in  the  hands  of 
Gabriel  Wells,  the  dealer,  where  they  await,  for  only 
a  small  fraction  of  their  value,  a  discriminating  pur- 
chaser. Perhaps  no  art  object  now  on  sale  in  New 
York  is  so  well  worth  buying.  Why  it  has  not  passed 
into  the  possession  of  the  Metropolitan  Museum,  or 
some  other,  is  a  mystery.  It  would  be  a  rare  priv- 
ilege to  examine  the  two  sets  side  by  side.  Both,  so 
Gilchrist  says,  are  finely  drawn  and  pure  in  color; 
necessarily  very  much  finer  than  the  engravings  of 
the  same  subjects.  Much  was  lost  in  translation  to 
copper.  "If,  therefore,"  as  Gilchrist  says,  "the  en- 
gravings are  the  best  that  Blake  ever  did,  the  draw- 
ings would  seem  by  inference  to  be  his  greatest  work." 
Now  think  of  it!  Here  is  one  of  the  great  art 
works  of  the  world,  which  can  be  seen  only  by  those 
who  are  privileged  to  enter  Mr.  Morgan's  library  in 
New  York,  or  who  attend  from  time  to  time  the 
public  exhibitions  of  Blake's  work.  The  tragedy 
is  that  they  are  executed  on  so  small  a  scale  that  an 


218      A  SANE  VIEW  OF  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

ordinary  letter-sheet  would  cover  the  whole  design; 
and  so  delicately  and  exquisitely  colored  are  they, 
that  they  cannot  frequently  be  exposed  to  the  light. 
The  series  consists  of  21  numbered  plates;  one  of 
them,  "When  the  morning  stars  sang  together,"  is 
considered  to  be  the  finest  thing  Blake  ever  did. 

I  am  not  greatly  impressed  with  Blake  as  an  en- 
graver, even  in  his  universally  admired  Job  plates ; 
his  work  is  mannered,  hard,  and  dry ;  he  did  not,  I 
think,  love  copper  as  an  engraver  should ;  the  work 
progressed  too  slowly,  his  hand  only  being  employed, 
his  imagination  shriveled,  and  he  was  unhappy. 
Neither  in  Job  nor  in  the  Canterbury  Pilgrims  is 
Blake's  best  engraving  to  be  seen,  but  rather,  as  it 
seems  to  me,  in  his  designs  to  illustrate  Hayley's 
"Ballads,"  and  in  his  fine  large  plate  after  Hogarth's 
painting  of  the  "Beggar's  Opera." 

Of  the  relative  merits  of  the  drawings,  frequently 
very  elaborately  colored,  in  his  prophetic  books,  it  is 
difficult  to  speak ;  it  depends  so  much  upon  the  par- 
ticular book  that  may  be  under  the  observation  of  the 
critic.  Muir,  who  may  be  presumed  to  have  seen 
them  all,  says,  "I  consider  the  *  Songs  of  Innocence 
and  of  Experience'  the  most  beautiful  book  that  has 
ever  been  produced  in  England."  All  things  con- 
sidered, I  agree  with  him,  although  in  my  judgment 
"Urizen"  is  the  most  powerful,  the  most  Michel- 
Angelesque  of  all  the  works  of  his  imagination.  Mr. 
White  has  a  copy,  unique,  so  far  as  is  known,  in  this 
country ;  and  I  am  the  proud  owner  of  a  full-page 
original  drawing  for  that  book,  reproduced  as  a 


A  SANE  VIEW  OF  WILLIAM  BLAKE      219 

frontispiece  to  this  publication.  I  own,  too,  the 
original  sketches  for  the  title-page  to  "America,"  as 
well  as  the  book  itself,  which  is  very  fine;  but  I 
think  no  drawing  in  it  compares  with  the  title-page  of 
"Europe,"  which  Blake  himself  regarded  as  one  of 
his  best  designs.  And  so  it  goes. 

We  know  into  what  verbal  rhapsodies  relatively 
unimportant  examples  of  his  work  sometimes  threw 
such  writers  as  Gilchrist,  Rossetti,  Swinburne,  and 
others,  who  attempted  to  translate  Blake's  indefin- 
able art  into  words.  What  they  failed  in  doing,  I 
shall  not  attempt.  And  I  have  confessed  that  I  can- 
not understand  or  follow  his  peculiar  and  personal 
mythology :  I  inspect  his  work  whenever  oppor- 
tunity offers,  praise  it  when  I  think  I  understand  it, 
and  keep  silence  when  I  do  not.  The  creation  of  an 
imagination  infinitely  superior  to  that  of  Dore  and 
comparable  with  that  of  Michael  Angelo  or  Dante, 
whom  alone  he  may  be  said  to  resemble,  is  more  than 
enough  for  me ;  I  do  not  expect  fully  to  understand. 

It  is  a  great  misfortune  for  the  world  that  his  can- 
vas, his  paper,  his  copper,  was  too  small  adequately 
to  display  the  tremendous  inventions  of  his  genius. 
He  who  should  have  covered  the  dead  walls  of  St. 
Paul's  with  frescoes  was  forced  to  content  himself 
with  bits  of  copper  or  scraps  of  paper  smaller  than 
this  on  which  I  write.  It  is  hardly  surprising  that 
the  greatest  artist  England  ever  produced  should 
have  been  so  completely  neglected  in  his  own  lifetime. 

Again  I  come  back  to  Blake,  the  man.  All  his 
life  he  was  misunderstood,  ridiculed,  insulted,  and 


220      A  SANE  VIEW  OF  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

almost  starved ;  yet  listen  to  his  words  to  a  little  girl 
shortly  before  he  died:  "May  God  make  this  world 
to  you,  my  child,  as  beautiful  as  it  has  been  to  me." 
Blake  died  in  his  seventieth  year,  and  was  buried  hi 

Bunhill  Fields  Burying- 
Ground,  that  crowded 
Campo  Santo  in  which 
were  already  interred 
two  other  great  Noncon- 
formists, Bunyan  and 
Defoe.  It  is  one  of  the 
ironies  of  fate  that  Blake, 
whose  genius  from  his 
early  youth  to  the  day 
of  his  death  was  con- 
cerned with  mortuary 
design,  should  lie  in  an 
unmarked  and  forgotten 
grave.  In  his  work  he 

•  •  •  • 

repeated  again  and  again 
an  idea  which  was  an 

especial  favorite  of  his,  that  of  an  old  man  entering 
a  tomb ;  he  called  it  Death's  Door.  The  germ  of 
this  exists  in  a  pencil-sketch  hardly  larger  than 
a  postage-stamp,  in  the  Rossetti  manuscript,  now  the 
property  of  Mr.  W.  A.  White.  He  used  this  design 
again  and  again,  in  "The  Gates  of  Paradise,'*  in 
"America,"  and  finally  in  Blair's  "  Grave  "  ;  and  I  was 
fortunate  enough  to  secure  a  large  India-ink  drawing 
of  it  about  a  year  ago,  when  it  came  up  for  sale  in 
London.  Such  a  design,  carved  on  stone,  would  have 


DEATH'S  DOOR. 
From  an  early  engraving  by  William  Blake, 


MAGNIFICENTLY  COLORED  TITLE-PAGE  TO  "AMERICA,"  BY  WILLIAM    BLAKE 


A  SANE  VIEW  OF  WILLIAM  BLAKE       221 

suitably  marked  his  grave  for  all  time ;  but  it  was  not 
to  be.  Blake,  ignored  and  neglected  in  his  life,  was 
destined  to  be  forgotten  for  a  time  after  his  death ; 
indeed,  until  Gilchrist,  a  full  generation  later,  opened 
the  Gates  of  Paradise  and  set  free  the  soul  of  him 
who,  unknown  to  his  contemporaries,  had  put  on 
immortality. 


From  one  of  Blake's  last  works.     Mr.  Geoffrey  Keynes  thinks  that  it  was 
intended  for  a  bookplate 


XII 

MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON 

I  ONCE  heard  a  charming  woman  say  at  dinner,  "  I 
don't  think  I  ever  had  quite  as  much  fresh  asparagus 
as  I  wanted."  In  like  manner,  I  don't  think  I  shall 
ever  get  as  much  of  London  as  is  necessary  for  my 
complete  happiness.  I  love  it  early  in  the  morning 
—  before  it  rouses  itself,  when  the  streets  are  de- 
serted ;  I  love  it  when  throngs  of  people  —  the  best- 
natured  and  politest  people  in  all  the  world  —  crowd 
its  thoroughfares ;  and  I  love  it,  I  think,  best  of  all  at 
sunset,  when  London  in  some  of  its  aspects  may  be 
very  beautiful.  If  I  were  a  Londoner,  I  should  never 
leave  it,  except  perhaps  for  a  day  or  two  now  and 
then,  so  that  I  could  enjoy  coming  back  to  it. 

The  terrible  world-upheaval  through  which  we 
have  just  passed  is  responsible  for  my  not  having  been 
in  London  for  six  years,  and  I  greatly  feared  that 
those  years  might  have  left  some  unhappy  imprint 
upon  the  Old  Lady.  She  may,  indeed,  have  lost  a 
tooth  or  a  wisp  of  hair ;  but  aristocratic  old  ladies 
know  how  to  conceal  the  ravages  of  time  and  cir- 
cumstance, and  as  I  looked  around  the  railway 
station  while  my  belongings  were  being  stowed  away 
in  the  "left-luggage"  room,  I  saw  only  the  usual 
crowd  quietly  going  about  its  business ;  and  then,  as 
I  stepped  into  my  taxi  and  said,  "Simpson's  in  the 


MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON  223 

Strand,"  and  was  being  whirled  over  Waterloo  Bridge, 
I  said  to  myself,  "Nothing  has  changed.  Nothing 
has  changed  except  that  the  fare,  which  was  once 
eightpence,  is  now  a  shilling." 

I  said  it  again,  with  not  quite  the  same  certainty, 
when,  after  eating  my  piece  of  roast  beef  and  a  little 
mess  of  greens  and  a  wonderful  potato,  I  called  the 
head  waiter  and  complained  that  the  meat  was  tough 
and  stringy.  "It  is  so,"  said  that  functionary;  and 
he  continued:  "You  see,  sir,  during  the  war  we  ex- 
hausted" (with  careful  emphasis  upon  the  h)  our 
own  English  beef,  and  we  are  now  forced  to  depend 
upon  —  "  I  looked  him  straight  in  the  eye ;  he  was 
going  to  say  America,  but  changed  his  mind  and  said, 
"the  Hargentine." 

"Very  neatly  done,"  I  said,  ordering  an  extra  half- 
pint  of  bitter  and  putting  a  sixpence  in  his  hand; 
"to-morrow  I'll  have  fish.  I'm  very  sure  that 
nothing  can  have  happened  to  the  turbot." 

It  was  only  a  little  after  one  when,  leaving  Simp- 
son's, I  lit  a  cigar  and  turned  westward  in  quest  of 
lodgings.  As  the  Savoy  was  near  at  hand,  I  thought 
no  harm  would  be  done  by  asking  the  price  of  a  large 
double-bedded  room  overlooking  the  river,  with  a 
bath,  and  was  told  that  the  price  would  be  five 
guineas  a  day,  but  that  no  such  accommodation  was 
at  that  moment  available.  "I'm  glad  of  it,"  I  said, 
feeling  that  a  temptation  had  been  removed;  for  I 
have  always  wanted  a  room  which  looked  out  on  the 
river. 

I  continued  westward,  inquiring  at  one  hotel  after 


224  MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON 

another,  until,  just  as  I  was  beginning  to  feel  —  not 
alarmed  but — a  trifle  uneasy,  I  secured,  not  just  what 
I  wanted,  but  a  room  and  a  bath  that  would  serve, 
at  the  Piccadilly. 

I  had  been  kept  waiting  quite  a  little  time  in  the 
lobby,  and  as  I  looked  about  me  there  seemed  to  be  a 
good  many  foreigners  in  evidence  —  a  number  of 
Spaniards  and,  I  suspected,  Germans.  A  fine  manly 
young  fellow  with  only  one  arm  (how  many  such  I 
was  to  see !),  who  manipulated  the  lift  and  to  whom 
I  confided  my  suspicions,  replied,  "Yes,  sir ;  I  believe 
they  is,  sir;  but  what  are  you  going  to  do?  They 
calls  themselves  Swiss  ! " 

But  in  my  anxiety  to  get  to  London  I  have  for- 
gotten to  say  a  word  about  the  Imperator,  on  which 
I  crossed,  or  about  the  needless  expense  and  delay  to 
which  one  is  subjected  in  New  York,  for  no  reason 
that  I  can  see  but  that  some  of  what  Mr.  Bryan  called 
"deserving  Democrats"  may  be  fed  at  the  public 
trough. 

After  being  photographed  and  getting  your  pass- 
port and  having  it  vised  by  the  consul  of  the  country 
to  which  you  are  first  going,  and  after  assuring  the 
officials  of  the  Treasury  Department  that  the  final 
installment  of  your  income  tax  will  be  paid,  when  due, 
by  your  bank, —  though  where  the  money  is  to  come 
from,  you  don't  in  the  least  know, —  you  finally  start 
for  New  York,  to  be  there  one  day  before  the  steamer 
sails,  so  that  you  may  again  present  your  passport  at 
the  Custom  House  for  final  inspection.  I  know  no 
man  wise  enough  to  tell  me  what  good  purpose  is 


MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON 

served  by  this  last  annoyance.  With  trunks  and 
suitcases,  New  York  is  an  expensive  place  in  which 
to  spend  a  night,  and  one  is  not  in  the  humor  for  it : 
one  has  started  for  Europe  and  has  reached  —  New 
York. 

But,  fearful  that  some  hitch  may  occur,  you  wire 
on  for  rooms  and  get  them,  and  on  "  the  day  previous 
to  sailing,"  as  the  regulation  demands,  you  present 
yourself  and  your  wife,  each  armed  with  a  passport, 
at  the  Custom  House.  Standing  in  a  long  line  in  a 
corridor,  you  eventually  approach  a  desk  at  which 
sits  a  man  consuming  a  big  black  cigar.  Spreading 
out  your  passport  before  him,  he  looks  at  it  as  if  he 
were  examining  one  for  the  first  time ;  finally  with  a 
blue  pencil  he  puts  a  mark  on  it  and  says,  "Take  it 
to  that  gentleman  over  there,"  pointing  across  the 
room.  You  do  so;  and  another  man  examines  it, 
surprised,  it  may  be,  to  see  that  it  so  closely  resem- 
bles one  that  he  has  just  marked  with  a  red  pencil. 
He  is  just  about  to  make  another  hieroglyph  on  the 
passport,  when  he  observes  that  the  background  of 
your  photograph  is  dark,  and  the  regulations  call  for 
light.  He  suspends  the  operation ;  is  it  possible  that 
you  will  be  detained  at  the  last  moment  ?  No  !  with 
the  remark  "Get  a  light  one  next  time,"  he  makes  a 
little  mark  in  red  and  scornfully  directs  you  to 
another  desk.  Here  sits  another  man  —  these  are 
all  able-bodied  and  presumably  well-paid  politicians 
—  with  a  large  rubber  stamp ;  it  descends,  and  you 
are  free  to  go  on  board  your  ship  —  to-morrow. 

The  Imperator  made,  I  think,  only  one  trip  in  the 


226  MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON 

service  of  the  company  that  built  her ;  during  the  war 
she  remained  tied  up  to  her  pier  in  Hoboken ;  and 
when  she  was  finally  put  into  passenger  service,  she 
was  taken  over,  pending  final  allocation,  by  the  Cu- 
nard  Line.  She  is  a  wonderful  ship,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  the  Leviathan  the  largest  boat  afloat,  magnifi- 
cent and  convenient  in  every  detail,  and  as  steady  as 
a  church.  The  doctor  who  examines  my  heart  oc- 
casionally, looking  for  trouble,  would  have  had  a 
busy  time  on  her ;  I  fancy  I  can  see  him,  drawing  his 
stethoscope  from  his  pocket  and  suspending  it  in  his 
ears,  poking  round,  listening  in  vain  for  the  pulsation 
of  her  engines ;  no  doubt  fearful  that  he  was  going  to 
lose  his  patient,  he  would  have  prescribed  certain 
drops  hi  water  at  regular  intervals,  and,  finally,  he 
would  have  sent  her  in  a  very  large  bill. 

I  am  quite  sure  that  I  owe  my  comparatively  good 
health  to  having  been  very  abstemious  in  the  matter 
of  exercise.  But  it  was  my  habit  to  take  a  constitu- 
tional each  day  before  breakfast;  this  duty  done,  I 
was  able  to  read  and  smoke  thereafter  with  a  clear 
conscience.  Four  and  a  half  times  around  the  prom- 
enade deck  was  a  mile,  the  steward  told  me,  and  I  can 
quite  believe  it.  To  relieve  the  monotony  of  this 
long  and  lonely  tramp,  I  tried  to  learn  by  heart  a 
letter  which  came  to  me  just  as  we  were  sailing,  in 
the  form  of  a  merry  jingle,  written  by  a  master,  or, 
should  I  say,  a  mistress  of  laughing  rhyme,  who  loves 
to  make  fun  of  her  friends.  I  never  quite  succeeded, 
but  it  reads  this  way :  — 


A  HANSOM  CAB;    SOON  TO  BE  SEEN  ONLY  IN  THE  LONDON  MUSEUM 

From  a  water-color  in  the  possession  of  the  author 


MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON  227 

Somewhere  in  Connecticut. 
Somewhere  in  September,  1920. 
A.  EDWARD  NEWTON  :  Dear  Friend  and  Philosopher : 
Also  your  wife  (tho'  you'll  never  be  boss  of  her !) 
So  you're  to  sail  on  the  good  Imperator 
O  'er  Byron's  justly  famed  deep,  dark  blue  water. 
As  I  sat  musing, —  up  here  in  Connecticut, — 
Your  letter  reached  me,  and  you  can  just  bet  I  cut 
Down  to  the  shops  of  this  hamlet  Berkshirian, 
Seeking  a  draught  from  the  old  spring  Pierian. 
For,  I  opined,  no  flowers  or  confections  — 
Only  a  book  —  for  the  Man  of  Collections. 
Certain  conventions  admit  of  no  lenities, 
Only  a  book  for  the  Man  of  "Amenities." 
Down  to  the  village  I  went  with  celerity, 
Said  to  the  Shopman  with  eager  asperity, 
"  I  want  a  book  for  one  A.  Edward  Newton  — 
Something  high-priced  and  a  bit  hifalutin. 
For  it 's  a  parting  gift  —  sort  of  a  souvenir ; 
No  modern  novel,  dolled  up  in  a  new  veneer ! 
Rather  some  old  tome  all  leathery  and  lacquery, — 
Some  First  Edition  of  Dickens  or  Thackeray  — 
Something  that 's  truly  a  worth-while  memorial 
To  one  the  Atlantic  in  lines  editorial, 
Says  is  'of  Letters  a  Doctor  and  Ornament' !" 
(And  I  admit  you  're  a  handsome  adornament !) 
"Give  me,"  I  begged,  "some  unique  Enchiridion, 
Some  precious  copy  of  'Epipsychidion,' 
Some  ancient  Horn  Book,  or  rare  Incunabula," — 
Right  here,  his  jaw  dropped, —  his  eyes  became  globular ; 
"Show  me,"  I  went  on,  "a  binding  Zaehnsdorfian, 
To  please  this  Minotaur  Anthropomorphian ; 
A  tall  Shakespeare  quarto,  an  Omar  Khayyam, 
An  early  edition  of  Bacon  or  Lamb  —  " 
"Oh,  say,"  his  eyes  shone,  "there's  a  butcher  next  door  — 
A  quarter  of  Lamb  you  can  get  at  his  store !" 
More  hi  sorrow  than  anger,  I  murmured,  "Good  day." 
Bookless,  helpless,  and  hopeless,  went  sadly  away. 


228  MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON 

And  that  is  the  reason,  O  A.  Edward  Newton, 
No  rare  Rabelais,  Rasselas  or  Rasputin 
To  you  as  a  parting  remembrance  I  send. 
From  my  over-full  heart  I  can  merely  commend 
Your  soul  to  your  Maker,  your  luggage  to  Cook, 
And  waft  you  "Bon  Voyage"  in  place  of  a  book. 
May  your  buys  over  there  be  far  more  than  your  sells, 
Is  the  wish  of  yours  faithfully, 

CAROLYN  WELLS. 

Coming  back  to  earth,  or  rather  sea,  after  this 
flight  into  the  empyrean,  I  am  bound  to  admit  that 
the  Germans  knew  how  to  build  and  run  ships.  And 
the  beautiful  part  of  the  Imperator  was  that,  though 
you  saw  a  German  sign  occasionally,  not  a  German 
word  was  heard.  How  completely,  for  the  time  being 
at  any  rate,  the  German  nation  has  been  erased  from 
the  sea  !  I  sometimes  doubt  the  taste  of  the  English 
singing  "Rule,  Britannia,"  it  is  so  very  true  —  now. 

As  we  entered  Southampton  Water  after  a  pleas- 
ant and  quite  uneventful  voyage,  we  saw  almost  the 
only  sign  of  the  war  we  were  destined  to  see.  A  long 
line,  miles  long,  of  what  we  should  call  torpedo-boat 
destroyers,  anchored  in  mid-stream,  still  wearing  their 
camouflage  coloring,  slowly  rusting  themselves  away. 
We  landed  on  a  clear  warm  September  afternoon  and, 
Southampton  possessing  no  charm  whatever,  we  at 
once  took  train  for  Winchester,  which  we  reached  in 
time  to  attend  service  in  the  austere  old  cathedral. 
The  service  was  impressive  and  the  singing  better 
than  in  most  cathedrals,  for  the  choir  is  largely  re- 
cruited from  the  great  school  founded  centuries  ago 
by  William  of  Wykeham.  After  the  service  we  stood 


MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON  229 

silently  for  a  moment  by  the  tomb  of  Jane  Austen ; 
nor  did  we  forget  to  lift  reverently  the  carpet  that 
protects  the  tablet  let  into  the  tombstone  of  Isaak 
Walton.  After  tea,  that  pleasant  function,  we  drove 
out  to  the  Hospital  of  St.  Cross,  beautiful  and  always 
dear  to  me,  being,  as  it  is,  the  scene  of  Trollope's 
lovely  story,  "The  Warden." 

Seated  at  home  in  my  library,  in  imagination  I  love 
to  roam  about  this  England,  this  "precious  stone  set 
in  the  silver  sea,"  which,  now  that  the  air  has  been 
conquered,  no  longer  serves  it  as  a  defensive  moat; 
but  directly  I  find  myself  there,  the  lure  of  London 
becomes  irresistible,  and  almost  before  I  know  it  I 
am  at  some  village  railway  station  demanding  my 
"two  single  thirds"  to  Waterloo,  or  Victoria,  or 
wherever  it  may  be.  So  it  was  in  this  case.  I  did, 
however,  take  advantage  of  the  delightful  weather 
to  make  a  motor  pilgrimage  to  Selborne,  some  fifteen 
miles  across  country  from  Winchester.  A  tiny  copy 
of  White's  "Natural  History  of  Selborne"  came  into 
my  possession  some  forty  years  ago,  by  purchase,  at 
a  cost  of  fifteen  cents,  at  Leary's  famous  bookshop 
in  Philadelphia ;  and  while  I  now  display,  somewhat 
ostentatiously  perhaps,  Horace  Walpole's  own  copy 
of  the  first  edition,  I  keep  my  little  volume  for  read- 
ing and  had  it  with  me  on  the  steamer.  "The 
Wakes,"  the  house  in  which  Gilbert  White  was  born 
and  in  which  he  died,  is  still  standing  on  what  is  by 
courtesy  called  the  main  street  of  the  little  village, 
which  is,  in  its  way,  I  suppose,  as  famous  as  any  set- 
tlement of  its  size  anywhere. 


230  MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON 

The  church  of  which  he  was  rector,  and  in  which 
he  preached  when  he  was  not  wandering  about  ob- 
serving with  unexampled  fidelity  the  flora  and  fauna 
of  his  native  parish,  stands  near  the  upper  end  of  a 
tiny  public  square  called  the  Plestor,  or  play  place, 
which  dates  only  from  yesterday,  that  is  to  say,  from 
1271 !  Originally  an  immense  oak  tree  stood  in  the 
centre,  but  it  was  uprooted  in  a  great  storm  some  two 
centuries  ago  and  a  sycamore  now  stands  in  its  place. 
Encircling  it  is  a  bench  on  which  the  rude  fore- 
fathers of  the  hamlet  may  sit  and  watch  the  children 
at  play,  and  on  which  we  should  have  sat  but  that  we 
were  more  interested  in  the  great  yew  which  stands 
in  the  near-by  churchyard.  It  is  one  of  the  most 
famous  trees  in  England  —  a  thousand  years  old 
they  say,  and  looking  old  for  its  age;  but  it  is  so 
symmetrical  in  its  proportions  that  its  immense  size 
is  not  fully  realized  until  one  slowly  paces  round  it 
and  discovers  that  its  trunk  is  almost  thirty  feet  in 
circumference. 

The  church,  which  has  luckily  escaped  the  restora- 
tions so  many  parish  churches  have  been  compelled 
to  undergo,  is  in  no  wise  remarkable.  Many  Whites 
are  buried  therein ;  but  our  particular  White,  the  one 
who  has  made  Selborne  notable  among  the  villages 
of  England,  lies  outside  in  the  churchyard  near  the 
north  wall  of  the  chancel,  the  grave  being  marked  by 
a  half-sunken  headstone  on  which  one  reads  with 
difficulty  two  simple  letters,  "G.  W."  and  a  date, 
"26th  June  1793";  but  a  tablet  within  the  church 
records  at  greater  length  his  virtues  and  distinctions. 


MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON  231 

There  is  nothing  more  exhausting  than  the  ele- 
gance of  a  big  hotel,  and  to  move  from  a  fashionable 
caravansary  in  Philadelphia  to  another  in  London  or 
Paris  is  to  subject  one's  self  to  the  inconvenience  of 
travel  without  enjoying  any  of  its  compensations. 
One  wants  to  enjoy  the  difference  of  foreign  coun- 
tries rather  than  their  somewhat  artificial  resem- 
blances. At  the  end  of  a  busy  day,  when  one  is  tired, 
one  wants  peace,  quiet,  and  simplicity  —  at  least 
this  one  does ;  and  so,  when  our  attention  was  called 
to  a  small  apartment  in  Albemarle  Street,  from  the 
balcony  of  which  I  could  throw  a  stone  into  the 
windows  of  Quaritch's  bookshop.  I  closed  the  bargain 
instantly,  and  was  soon  by  way  of  being  a  house- 
holder on  a  very  small  scale. 

We  had  been  told  that  "service"  in  England  is  a 
thing  of  the  past,  that  it  has  disappeared  with  the 
war ;  but  this  was  only  one  of  the  many  discouraging 
statements  which  were  to  be  entirely  refuted  in  the 
experience.  No  one  could  have  been  better  cared  for 
than  we,  by  a  valet  and  maid,  who  brushed  our  clothes 
and  brought  us  our  breakfast ;  and  shortly  after  ten 
each  morning  we  started  out  upon  our  wanderings  in 
whatever  direction  we  would,  alert  for  any  adven- 
ture that  the  streets  of  London  might  afford.  This  is 
an  inexpensive  and  harmless  occupation,  interesting 
in  the  event  and  delightful  in  retrospect.  Is  it  Liszt 
who  conjures  us  to  store  up  recollections  for  consump- 
tion in  old  age  ?  Well,  I  am  doing  so. 

I  know  not  which  I  enjoy  most,  beating  the  pave- 
ments of  the  well-known  streets,  which  afford  at  every 


TRIVIA: 

OR.   THE 

ART  of  WALKING 


THE 


STREETS  of    LONDON. 

By  Mr.  GAT. 

<$*o  te  Mvrifedcs  ?  An,  quo  via  Jucit,  in  1}rktm  ? 


MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON 

turn  scenes  that  recall  some  well-known  historic  or 
literary  incident,  or  journeying  into  some  unexplored 
region,  which  opens  up  districts  of  hitherto  un- 
suspected interest.  Years  ago,  when  slumming  first 

became  fashionable, 
one  never  used  to 
overlook  Pettycoat 
Lane  in  far-off  White- 
chapel;  of  late  years 
it  has  been  cleaned  up 
and  made  respectable 
—  and  uninteresting. 
But  how  many  people 
are  there  who  know 
that  there  is  a  very 
pretty  slum  right  in 
the  heart  of  things, 
only  a  short  distance 
back  of  Liberty's  fa- 
mous shop  in  Regent 
Street?  If  interested 
in  seeing  how  the 
other  half  lives,  look 
it  up  when  you  are 
next  in  London,  and  you  will  be  astonished  at  the  way 
in  which  the  pursuit  of  life,  liberty,  and  happiness 
unfolds  itself  in  a  maze  of  little  streets  and  courts  all 
jumbled  together.  London  has  always  been  a  city  in 
which  extremes  meet:  where  wealth  impinges  upon 
poverty.  Nowhere  can  greater  contrasts  be  obtained 
than  in  that  terra  incognita,  which  lies  just  to  the  south 


Printed  for  Bernard  Lintott ,  at  the  Cnft-Rtjt 
/  between  the  Temflt  Gates  in  Fltetjlrett. 


MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON  233 

of  Soho.  The  world  lives,  if  not  in  the  open,  at  least  in 
the  streets,  and  food,  fruit,  fish,  and  furbelows  are  ex- 
posed for  sale  on  barrows  and  trestles  in  what  appears 
to  be  unspeakable  confusion.  I  had  discovered  this 
curious  slum  years  before  my  friend  Lucas,  that  sympa- 
thetic wanderer  in  London,  called  attention  to  it  in  his 
delightful  volume,  "Adventures  and  Enthusiasms." 

But  there  is,  to  my  mind,  an  even  choicer  little 
backwater,  just  off  Fleet  Street  —  Nevill's  Court, 
which  I  first  visited  many  years  ago,  during  a  mem- 
orable midnight  ramble,  in  company  with  David 
Wallerstein,  a  Philadelphia  lawyer  and  an  old  friend, 
who,  by  reason  of  his  wide  reading,  retentive  mem- 
ory, and  power  of  observation,  seemed  able  to  better 
my  knowledge  of  London  even  in  a  district  where  I 
had  thought  myself  peculiarly  at  home. 

Nevill's  Court  runs  east  from  Fetter  Lane.  One 
enters  it  by  an  archway  which  may  easily  be  passed 
unnoticed,  and  to  one's  great  surprise  one  comes  sud- 
denly upon  a  row  of  old  mansions,  one  of  which  was 
pointed  out  to  me  as  once  having  been  the  town  resi- 
dence of  the  Earl  of  Warwick.  "  It  was  a  grand  'ouse 
in  its  day,  sir,"  said  a  young  woman  in  an  interesting 
condition,  who  was  taking  the  air  late  one  afternoon 
when  I  first  saw  it, "  but  it 's  let  out  as  lodgings  now. 
Keir  Hardie,  M.P.,  lodges  here  when  he's  in  London ; 
he  says  he  likes  it  here,  it's  so  quiet." 

"And  how  long  have  you  lived  here?"  I  inquired. 

"  Oh,  sir,  Hi  Ve  always  lived  about  'ere  in  this  court 
or  close  to ;  Hi  like  living  in  courts,  it's  so  quiet ;  it's 
most  like  living  in  the  country." 


234 


MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON 


All  the  houses  look  out  upon  ample,  if  now  sadly 
neglected,  gardens,  through  the  centre  of  which  flow- 
er-bordered paths  lead  to  the  front  doors.  Push  open 
one  of  the  several  gates,  —  some  one  is  certain  to  be 

unlocked,  —  or  peer 
through  the  cracks  of 
an  old  oaken  fence 
which  still  affords 


A  N 


(0 

ACT 


FOU  THE 

Preventing  of  the  Multiplicity  of 

BUILDINGS 

In  and  about  the  Suburbs  of 

LONDON. 

AND 

VVi  hin  Ten  Miles  thereof. 


Reread  t&e  Czeat  anD 
Dumber  of  tyonto,  ebtfices, 
*Dut-l)o  afes  anD<£ottagts  met* 
f  D  anD  ncib  boat  to  and  about  tije 

<6>UbUtbS  Of  t!K  Clip  Of  London, 
fine  the  pat  rstnereunto  adopting,  CSfounD 
to  Hi  DC  iv  tmfc!)ictoous  anD  fneontoenlent,  and 
a  great  annoyance  anbjftufanctto  thcConu 
uiomfcealtl)  ;  3nD  UJlietcas  nottbittJfUnDmg 
biDrts  pjoljibinons  6*retofoje  tjaD  anD  mate 
to  t&e  contrary  ,  ptt  tl)t  faio  gro  u>mg  et&  t& 
of  late  fo  much  maltfpUeo  anD  tncceafrb  ,  ttjat 
rticrc  IE  a  ncccffi  tp  of  rafting  Tome  f  urtljet  anD 
fpcctv^onrfcfo}  tDr  ficti:cfs  tftncof  :  21nD 
iDtKr  cas  b?  tDc  2.  avD  tfic  falb  ^toufts  anD  £0* 
fanccs  on  01)t  t  o  be  abate  D,  a  no  tl)t  KntlDtrS, 
Occupiers,  Continuers  anD  1  mants  tljtrtof 
on  gt)  t  to  wafer  fines  f  oj  t!je  fame  ,  fo  tt)at  (f 


it  ftfinU)  tenoto  ti>e  onBoaigrof 
MMM 


AN  ACT  PASSED  IN  1656  IN  A   FUTILE  EF- 
FORT TO   PREVENT  THE    FURTHER 
GROWTH  OF  LONDON. 


some  measure  of  the 
privacy  dear  to  the 
heart  of  every  Eng- 
lishman, and  you 
will  see  a  bit  of  van- 
ishing London  which 
certainly  can  last  but 
a  short  time  longer. 
The  roar  of  the  city 
is  quite  unheard;  one 
has  simply  passed 
out  of  the  twentieth 
century  into  the 
seventeenth. 

Those  of  us  who, 
like  the  writer,  when 
we  visit  London  love 
to  lose  ourselves  in 
the  past,  sometimes 
forget  that  London 
very  much  so.    We  who,  on 
a  few  weeks   or   months   in 


is  "a  going  concern 

pleasure  bent,    spend 

this  great  city,  may  not  sufficiently  understand  that 


ST.  PAUL'S  CATHEDRAL,  FROM  THE  BOTTOM  OF  LUDGATE  HILL 
After  a  colored  etching  by  Liiigi  Kaaimir 


MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON  235 

London  is  intensely  modern  as  well  as  hoary  with 
age.  The  six  or  eight  millions  of  men  and  women  who 
pass  their  lives  there  demand  modern  conveniences — 
and  get  them.  Their  postal  and  telegraph  service  is 
well-nigh  perfect ;  their  telephone  system  is  not  good, 
chiefly  for  the  reason  that  the  people,  temperamen- 
tally very  deliberate,  are  loath  to  interrupt  a  conversa- 
tion, or  whatever  they  may  be  doing,  to  answer  the 
bell.  Too  often  the  telephone  is  regarded  as  a  nuisance 
rather  than  as  the  greatest  of  modern  conveniences. 

Once  fully  understood,  their  system  of  transporta- 
tion is  the  best  in  the  world:  whether  by  under- 
ground, by  motor-bus,  or  taxi,  one  is  rapidly  conveyed 
over  a  wide  area,  with  the  minimum  of  inconvenience. 
To  accomplish  this,  it  has  been  necessary  to  spend 
immense  sums ;  and  if  the  various  systems  are  gener- 
ally in  a  semi-bankrupt  condition,  as  with  us,  we  do 
not  hear  of  it. 

During  my  lifetime,  London  has  been  practically 
rebuilt;  the  old  inconvenient,  if  picturesque,  build- 
ings have  been  destroyed,  and  modern  and  commodi- 
ous mansions,  as  they  are  called,  have  been  erected 
in  their  stead.  The  main  thoroughfares  —  the  Strand, 
and  Oxford  Street,  and  Holborn  —  have  been  practi- 
cally rebuilt,  and  Regent  Street  is  rebuilding.  The 
glorious  view  of  St.  Paul's  from  Fleet  Street  still  re- 
mains ;  but  thousands  of  old  dilapidated  rookeries, 
formerly  the  haunts  of  poverty  and  vice,  and  grimy 
with  the  dirt  of  centuries .  which  knew  nothing  of 
sanitation,  have  given  way  to  noble  avenues  like 
Kingsway  and  Aldwych.  The  exigencies  of  transpor- 


236  MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON 

tation  have  caused  these  great  gashes  to  be  made, 
and  fine  hotels  and  government  buildings  now  line 
them  on  either  side. 

Holywell  Street,  characteristic  of  the  London  of  the 
eighteen-eighties,  once  given  over  to  second-hand 
bookshops,  and  others  of  a  more  questionable  char- 
acter, now  exists  only  in  memory  —  and  in  Pennell's 
drawing;  and  the  Black  Jack  tavern,  one  of  the 
haunts  of  the  notorious  Jack  Sheppard,  survives  only 
in  the  pages  of  Harrison  Ainsworth's  novel.  Once, 
almost  forty  years  ago,  I  spent  an  hour  in  this  Clare 
Market  thieves'  rendezvous,  under  the  protection  of 
my  friend  Hutt,  whose  bookshop  was  near  by. 

Oxford  Street  is  to  me  one  of  the  least  interesting 
streets  in  London.  It  is  a  great  modern  thoroughfare, 
always  crowded  with  people  going  east  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  west  in  the  evening  when  their  day's  work  is 
done.  I  was  walking  along  this  street  late  one  after- 
noon when  my  eye  caught  a  sign,  "Hanway  Street," 
which  instantly  brought  to  mind  the  publishing  busi- 
ness conducted  in  it  more  than  a  century  ago  by  my 
lamented  friend,  William  Godwin.  I  hoped  to  learn 
that  it  was  named  after  the  discoverer  of  the  um- 
brella, but  it  is  not.  Hanway  Street  is  a  mean,  narrow 
passage  running  north  out  of  Oxford  Street,  as  if 
intent  upon  going  straightway  to  Hampstead ;  but  it 
almost  immediately  begins  to  wobble  and,  finally 
changing  its  mind,  turns  east  and  stops  at  the  Horse- 
Shoe  Tavern  in  the  Tottenham  Court  Road. 

My  hour  of  refreshment  having  come,  I  stopped 
there,  too,  and  over  a  mug  of  ale  I  thought  of  Godwin, 


HOLYWELL  STREET 
From  a  pen  (Inuring  by  Joseph  Pennell 


MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON  237 

and  as  a  result  of  my  meditations,  decided  to  follow 
up  the  Godwin  trail.  And  so,  the  inner  man  re- 
freshed, I  continued  east  through  Holborn  until  I 
came  to  Snowhill,  to  which  street  Godwin  subse- 
quently removed  his  business  and  his  interesting  fam- 
ily. Turning  off  to  the  left,  and  doubling  somewhat 
on  my  tracks,  I  descended  Snowhill,  and  found  my- 
self facing  a  substantial  modern  building,  which  chal- 
lenged attention  by  reason  of  the  rather  unusual 
decoration  of  its  fagade.  It  needed  but  a  glance  to  see 
that  this  building  had  been  erected  on  the  site  of  the 
Saracen's  Head  Inn  immortalized  by  Charles  Dickens 
in  "Nicholas  Nickleby."  Let  into  the  wall  were  two 
large  panels,  one  being  a  school  scene  bearing  the 
legend  "Dotheboy's  Hall" ;  the  other,  a  "Mail  Coach 
leaving  Saracen's  Head."  Over  the  arched  doorway 
was  a  fine  bust  of  Dickens;  while  to  the  left  was  a 
full-length  figure  of  the  immortal  Mr.  Squeers,  and 
on  the  right  a  similar  figure  of  Nicholas  Nickleby.  In 
the  pleasure  of  my  discovery  I  almost  forgot  all  about 
Godwin,  whose  shop  was  once  near-by ;  proving  again, 
what  needs  no  proof,  that  many  characters  in  fiction 
are  just  as  sure  of  immortality  as  persons  who  once 
moved  among  us  in  the  flesh.  Then  I  remembered 
that  John  Bunyan  had  lived  and  died  in  this  street, 
when  Snowhill  was  described  as  being  very  narrow, 
very  steep,  and  very  dangerous.  This  led  me  to  de- 
cide that  I  would  make  a  pilgrimage  to  Bunyan's 
tomb  in  Bunhill  Fields,  which  I  had  not  visited  for 
many  years. 

And  so,  a  few  days  later,  I  found  myself  wandering 


238  MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON 

about  in  that  most  depressing  graveyard,  in  which 
thousands  of  men  and  women,  famous  in  their  time, 
found  sepulture,  in  some  cases  merely  temporary ;  for 
the  records  show  that,  after  the  passing  of  fifteen 
years  or  so,  their  graves  were  violated  to  make  room 
for  later  generations,  all  traces  of  earlier  interments 
having  been  erased.  Poor  Blake  and  his  wife  are 
among  those  whose  graves  can  no  longer  be  identified. 

On  the  day  of  my  visit  it  was  much  too  damp  to 
sit  on  the  ground  and  tell  sad  stories  of  anything,  but 
I  had  no  difficulty  in  coming  upon  the  tomb  of  Defoe, 
or  that  of  Bunyan,  a  large  altar-like  affair,  with  his 
recumbent  figure  upon  it.  An  old  man,  whom  I  met 
loitering  about,  called  my  attention  to  the  fact  that 
the  nose  had  recently  been  broken  off,  and  told  me 
that  it  had  been  shot  off  by  some  soldier  who  had 
been  quartered  during  the  war  in  the  near-by  bar- 
racks of  the  Honorable  Artillery  Company.  It  ap- 
pears that  some  miscreants  had,  to  beguile  the  time, 
amused  themselves  by  taking  pot  shots  at  the  statu- 
ary, and  that  much  damage  had  been  done  before  they 
were  discovered.  I  think  I  shall  accuse  the  Canadians 
of  this  act  of  vandalism.  It  is  always  well  to  be  spe- 
cific in  making  charges  of  this  kind ;  moreover,  it  will 
grieve  my  talented  friend,  Tait  McKenzie,  the  sculp- 
tor, who  comes  to  us  from  Scotland  by  way  of 
Toronto,  and  who  thinks  it  a  more  grievous  crime  to 
mutilate  a  statue  than  to  damage  a  man. 

It  will  have  been  seen  from  the  foregoing  that  I  am 
the  gentlest  of  explorers.  Give  me  the  choice  of  roam- 
ing the  streets  of  London  in  search  of  a  scarce  first 


MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON 


239 


As  it  is  Aftcd  at  the 

THE,ATRE-ROYAL 

IN 

L1NCOLNS-INN  FIELDS. 


edition  of,  say,  "The  Beggar's  Opera," — so  delightfully 
performed  month  after  month  at  the  Lyric  Theatre 
in  Hammersmith,  but  which  lasted  scarcely  a  week  in 
New  York, —  and  a  chance  to  explore  some  out-of-the 
way  place  with  an  un- 
pronounceable name, 
and  my  mind  is  made 
up  in  a  moment.  I 
have  found  the  race 
with  the  sheriff  suffi- 
ciently stimulating, 
and,  on  a  holiday,  give 
me  the  simple,  or  at 
least  the  contempla- 
tive, life. 

Just  before  leaving 
home,  I  had  lunched 
with  my  friend  Fuller- 
ton  Waldo;  his  face 
was  positively  beam- 
ing with  happiness 
and  his  eyes  sparkled. 
Why?  Because  he  was 
going  to  Russia,  to  see 
for  himself  what  the 
Bolsheviki  were  doing. 

"You  will  see  plenty  of  misery  you  may  be  sure," 
I  replied ;  "why  look  at  it  ?  Why  not  let  the  Russians 
stew  in  their  own  juice  ?  Ultimately  they  will  come 
home,  those  that  are  left,  wagging  their  tales  behind 
them." 


Written  by  Mr.  GAT. 


Nil  btte  noviotui  effi  nibit. 


Mart, 


To  which  U  Added, 

Tic  MUS1CK  &ff*rd  Xr  COPPER* 
PLATES* 


L  ON  2> 

Printed  tat  Joan  WATTS,  at  the  Prindng-Ofice 
io  mid-Ctttrt,  BMT 


^MDCCXXVIU. 


240  MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON 

But  no,  he  wanted  to  see  for  himself.  So  we  parted, 
each  of  us  going  his  own  way,  and  both  happy. 

But  I  did  see  one  thing  unusual  enough  to  have 
interested  even  so  sophisticated  a  traveler  as  Waldo, 
and  that  was  the  crowd  which,  on  Armistice  Day, 
that  is  to  say,  the  eleventh  of  November,  1920,  at 
exactly  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  stood  abso- 
lutely silent  for  two  whole  minutes.  London  is  a  busy 
city ;  there  is  a  ceaseless  ebb  and  flow  of  traffic,  not 
in  a  few  centres  and  here  and  there,  as  with  us,  but 
everywhere;  and  when  this  normal  crowd  is  aug- 
mented by  thousands  from  the  country,  intent  upon 
seeing  the  dedication  of  the  Cenotaph  in  the  centre 
of  Whitehall  and  the  burial  of  the  unknown  warrior 
in  the  Abbey,  it  is  a  crowd  of  millions.  And  this  huge 
crowd,  at  the  first  stroke  of  eleven,  stood  stock-still ; 
not  a  thing  moved,  except  perhaps  here  and  there  a 
horse  turned  its  head,  or  a  bird,  wondering  what  had 
caused  the  great  silence,  fluttered  down  from  Nelson's 
monument  in  Trafalgar  Square.  And  so  it  was,  we 
read,  all  over  Britain,  over  Australia  and  Africa,  and 
a  part  of  Asia  and  America;  the  Great  Empire, 
Ireland  alone  excepted,  stood  with  bowed  head  in 
memory  of  the  dead.  Not  a  wheel  turned  anywhere, 
not  a  telegram  or  telephone  message  came  over  the 
wires.  These  English  know  how  to  stage  big  effects, 
as  befits  their  Empire ;  with  them  history  is  ever  and 
always  in  the  making.  And  when  at  last  the  bunting 
fluttered  down  from  the  Cenotaph,  and  when  the 
bones  of  the  Unknown,  with  the  King  representing 
the  nation  as  chief  mourner,  were  deposited  in  the 


MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON  241 

Abbey,  there  formed  a  procession  which,  several  days 
afterward,  when  I  sought  to  join  it,  was  still  almost  a 
mile  long ! 

London  ean  boast  of  countless  little  museums  or 
memorials  to  this  or  that  great  man,  and  it  is  soon  to 
have  another  —  Wentworth  Place  in  Hampstead, 
with  which  the  name  of  Keats  is  so  closely  connected. 
When  this  is  opened  to  the  public, —  I  have  visited  it 
privately, —  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  it  will  take  on 
something  of  the  kindly  atmosphere  of  the  Johnson 
House  in  Gough  Square,  rather  than  that  of  the  cold 
museum  dedicated  to  that  old  dyspeptic  philosopher, 
Thomas  Carlyle,  in  Chelsea.  I  remember  well  when 
he  died.  He  was  said  to  have  been  the  Dr.  Johnson 
of  his  time.  Heaven  keep  us !  Carlyle !  who  never 
had  a  good  or  kindly  word  to  say  of  any  man  or  thing ; 
whose  world,  "mostly  fools,"  bowed  down  before  him 
and  accepted  his  ravings  as  criticism ;  whose  Prussian 
philosophy,  "the  strong  thing  is  the  right  thing,"  was 
exploded  in  the  Great  War.  I  have  lived  to  see  his 
fame  grow  dimmer  day  by  day,  while  Johnson's 
grows  brighter  as  his  wit,  wisdom,  and,  above  all,  his 
humanity,  become  better  known  and  understood. 

To  Gough  Square  then  I  hastened,  once  I  was  com- 
fortably installed  in  my  little  flat,  to  see  if  any  of  the 
suggestions  I  had  made  at  a  dinner  given  by  Cecil 
Harmsworth  in  the  winter  of  1914  to  the  Johnson 
Club,  to  which  I  was  invited,  had  been  carried  out. 
The  door  was  opened  to  my  knock  by  an  old  lady, 
who  invited  me  in  as  if  I  were  an  expected  guest.  She 
explained  to  me  that  it  was  hoped  that  ultimately  one 


242  MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON 

room  would  be  dedicated  to  the  memory  of  Boswell, 
and  others  of  the  Johnsonian  circle,  —  Goldsmith, 
Garrick,  Mrs.  Thrale,  Fanny  Burney,  and  the  rest, 
—  and  that  the  whole  house  would  be  pervaded  by 

the  immortal  memory 
of  Dr»  Johnson,  the 
kindest  as  well  as  the 
greatest  of  men ;  but 

thatj  owing  to  the 

war,  not  as  much  had 
been  accomplished  as 

had      been 

;;And s°>"  \ 

my  suggestions  have 
A  PRECIOUS  SOUVENIR  OF  A  FAMOUS    not  Deen  entirely  for- 

FRIENDSHIP. 

Interiptioninatiny  book  in  Latino/ the  Psalm*  of      gotten.  [     WaS     fear~ 

David. 

ful  that—'      "Why," 

continued  the  old  lady,  "  can  you  be  Mr.  Newton 
of  Philadelphia?" 

I  could  have  hugged  her,  for,  gentle  reader,  this  is 
much  nearer  fame  than  I  ever  hoped  for.  What  a 
morning  it  was !  Mrs.  Dyble  called  for  her  daughter, 
and  I  was  presented,  and  again  found  to  be  not  un- 
known; and  believe  me,  these  two  women  were  so 
absolutely  steeped  in  Johnson  as  to  shame  my  small 
learning  and  make  me  wish  for  the  support  of  real 
honest-to-God  Johnsonians  such  as  Tinker  or  Osgood, 
or  my  friend  R.  B.  Adam  of  Buffalo,  who  has  the 
greatest  Johnson  collection  in  the  world,  and  who, 
when  next  he  goes  to  London,  has  a  treat  in  store 
which  will  cause  him  to  forget,  at  least  momentarily, 


17  GOUGH  SQUARE      DR.  JOHNSON  WROTE  HIS  FAMOUS 
-       DICTIONARY  IN  THE  ATTIC 


MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON  243 

his  charming  wife  and  his  young  son  —  charming 
wives  and  young  sons  being  not  uncommon,  whereas 
Gough  Square  is  unique. 

Any  man  of  fine  heart  and  substantial  means  could 
have  bought  the  Gough  Square  house,  but  it  required 
a  singularly  wise  and  modest  man  to  fit  it  up  so 
simply,  so  in  keeping  with  the  Johnsonian  tradition ; 
to  say,  "We  don't  want  a  cold,  dry-as-dust  museum ; 
we  want  the  house  to  be  as  nearly  as  possible  what  it 
was  when  the  great  Doctor  lived  in  it  and  compiled 
the  dictionary  in  its  attic  room."  So  it  is,  that  17 
Gough  Square,  Fleet  Street,  is  one  of  the  places  which 
it  is  a  delight  to  visit.  A  fine  Johnsonian  library  has 
been  lent — and  may  ultimately  be  given — to  the 
house :  paintings,  portraits,  rare  prints,  and  auto- 
graph letters  abound,  and  in  these  interesting  sur- 
roundings, friends,  literary  societies,  and  clubs  may 
meet  for  the  asking,  and  teas  and  dinners  may  be 
sent  in  from  the  near-by  Cheshire  Cheese. 

And  all  this  might  have  been  done,  and  yet  the 
house  might  have  lacked  one  of  its  greatest  charms, 
namely,  the  kindly  presence  and  hospitality  of  two 
women,  the  discovery  of  whom,  by  Mr.  Harmsworth, 
was  a  piece  of  the  rarest  good  fortune.  Mrs.  Dyble  is 
a  soldier's  wife,  her  husband  being  a  color-sergeant 
in  one  of  the  crack  regiments;  and  the  story  goes 
that,  during  the  air-raids,  when  the  Germans  were 
dropping  bombs  on  all  and  sundry,  the  old  lady  went, 
not  into  the  " tubes"  for  shelter,  but  to  meet  the 
bombs  half-way,  into  the  attic,  and  there,  taking 
down  a  copy  of  Boswell,  she  read  quite  composedly 


244  MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON 

through  the  night ;  for,  as  she  said,  she  would  not  be 
worthy  of  her  soldier  husband  if  she  were  not  pre- 
pared to  face  death  at  home  as  he  was  doing  in 
France.  But  how  long,  I  ask  myself,  will  her  daugh- 
ter, Mrs.  Rowell,  a  pretty  widow,  be  content  to  live 
upon  the  memory  of  Dr.  Johnson  ? 

I  was  especially  pleased  to  convey  to  the  Johnson 
House  a  superb  photograph  of  a  portrait  of  Dr. 
Johnson  by  Reynolds,  which  had  recently  been  ac- 
quired by  Mr.  John  H.  McFadden  of  Philadelphia. 
I  was  sitting  in  my  club  one  afternoon,  when  Mr. 
McFadden  came  up  and  asked  me  how  I  would  like 
to  see  a  picture  of  Dr.  Johnson,  which  he  had  just 
received  from  the  Agnews  in  London.  Of  course  I  was 
delighted,  and  a  few  minutes  later  I  was  in  the  small 
but  exquisite  gallery  of  eighteenth-century  portraits 
which  Mr.  McFadden  has  collected.  Familiar  as  I  am 
supposed  to  be  with  Johnson  portraits,  I  had  never 
seen  the  one  which  was  shown  me.  It  was  obviously 
Dr.  Johnson,  and  as  soon  as  I  returned  home  and  had 
an  opportunity  of  consulting  my  notes,  I  saw  that  it 
was  the  portrait  painted  for  Dr.  Taylor  of  Ashbourne. 
So  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  learn,  it  has  never  been 
engraved,  or  even  photographed ;  and  I  told  its  owner 
that  he  owed  it  to  himself  and  all  Johnsonians  to  have 
it  photographed  in  the  best  possible  manner,  and  to 
send  a  copy  to  the  Johnson  House  at  Lichfield  and 
also  to  Cecil  Harmsworth.  This  Mr.  McFadden  read- 
ily consented  to  do ;  and  so,  on  my  arrival  in  London, 
I  had  the  pleasant  duty  of  presenting  the  pictures. 
The  portrait  is  of  a  very  old  man ;  the  head  is  bent 


H   g   I 

111 

>  -2  . 


03  •$ 

O  d 


MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON  245 

forward,  the  face  is  kindly,  and  about  the  mouth  is 
the  tremulousness  of  age.  I  take  it,  indeed,  to  be  a 
speaking  likeness,  and  it  pleases  me  to  fancy  that  the 
kindly  Doctor  has  just  made  the  remark  quoted  by 
Boswell,  "As  I  grow  older  I  am  prepared  to  call  a  man 
a  good  man  on  easier  terms  than  heretofore."  * 

During  the  war,  when  Germany  was  dropping 
bombs  on  London,  and  England  was  protesting  that 
no  real  military  purpose  was  served  thereby  and  that 
the  priceless  treasures  in  the  museums  which  had  al- 
ways been  open  to  the  public  were  being  endangered, 
Germany  characteristically  replied  that  England 
should  not  keep  her  bric-a-brac  in  a  fortress.  Whether 
London  is  a  fortress  or  not,  I  do  not  know ;  doubtless 
the  Tower  once  was,  and  doubtless  a  certain  amount 
of  bric-a-brac  is  stored  therein;  but  the  Tower  is  a 
fatiguing  place,  and  I  fancy  that  I  have  visited  it  for 
the  last  time ;  whereas  I  shall  never  cease  to  delight 
in  the  London  Museum,  filled  as  it  is  with  everything 
that  illustrates  the  history,  the  social  and  business  life 
of  a  people  who  by  no  accident  or  chance  have  played 
a  leading  part  in  the  history  of  the  world.  This 
wonderful  collection  is  housed  in  what  was  for  years 
regarded  as  the  most  sumptuous  private  residence  in 
London.  It  is  situated  in  Stable  Yard,  very  near 
St.  James's  Palace,  and  not  so  far  from  Buckingham 

1  Mr.  McFadden,  who  died  early  in  1921,  bequeathed  his  paintings, 
including  the  Johnson  portrait,  to  the  City  of  Philadelphia.  Miss 
Lowell,  when  she  saw  this  portrait,  said,  "It  makes  me  understand 
the  whole  quality  ofuJohnson's  character  better  than  anything  else  has 
ever  done,  and  turns  the  usual  portrait  of  him  into  a  mere  caricature. 
The  wisdom,  power,  pathos,  and  sweetness  in  his  face  make  one  under- 
stand why  his  friends  were  so  fond  of  him." 


246  MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON 

Palace  as  to  prevent  the  late  Queen  Victoria  from 
dropping  in  occasionally  for  a  cup  of  tea  with  her 
friend,  the  Duchess  of  Sutherland,  who  for  many 
years  made  it  her  residence.  The  story  goes,  that 
Her  Majesty  was  accustomed  to  remark  that  she 
had  left  her  house  to  visit  her  friend  in  her  palace. 
Be  this  as  it  may,  it  is  a  magnificent  structure,  ad- 
mirably fitted  for  its  present  purpose ;  and  I  was  for- 
tunate enough  to  be  one  of  its  first  visitors  when  it 
was  thrown  open  to  the  public  in  the  spring  of  1914. 
The  arrangement  of  the  exhibits  leaves  nothing  to  be 
desired ;  and  if  one  does  not  find  the  garments  of  the 
present  reigning  family  very  stimulating,  one  can  al- 
ways retire  to  the  basement  and  while  away  an  hour 
or  so  among  the  panoramas  of  Tudor  London,  or 
fancy  himself  for  a  brief  time  a  prisoner  in  Newgate. 
But  the  streets  of  a  great  city  are  more  interesting 
than  any  museum,  and  it  was  my  custom  generally 
to  stroll  through  St.  James's  Park,  gradually  working 
my  way  toward  Westminster,  thence  taking  a  bus  to 
whatever  part  of  London  my  somewhat  desultory 
plans  led  me.  One  morning  I  had  just  climbed  the 
steps  that  lead  to  Downing  Street,  when  a  heavy 
shower  forced  me  to  stand  for  a  few  moments  under 
an  archway,  almost  opposite  number  10,  which,  as 
all  the  world  knows,  is  the  very  unimposing  residence 
of  the  Prime  Minister.  Standing  under  the  same 
archway  was  an  admirable  specimen  of  the  London 
policeman, —  tall,  erect,  polite,  intelligent,  impertur- 
bable,—  and  it  occurred  to  me  that  the  exchange  of  a 
"British-made"  cigar  for  the  man's  views  on  the 


MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON  247 

war  would  be  no  more  than  a  fair  exchange.  And 
right  here  let  me  say  that,  all  the  time  I  was  in  Eng- 
land, I  did  not  hear  one  word  of  complaint  or  one 
word  of  exultation.  There  was  no  doubt  in  Bobby's 
mind  as  to  who  won  the  war,  "but,  mind  you,  your 
fellows  was  most  welcome,  when  they  came" ;  and 
I  thought  I  detected  just  a  trifle  of  sarcasm  in  his 
last  words.  "We  don't  like  the  Germans,  but  we 
don't  wear  ourselves  out  'ating  'em,"  he  said,  in 
reply  to  my  question. 

Just  here  our  conversation  was  interrupted  by  an 
old  lady,  who  came  up  to  inquire  at  what  hour  Mrs. 
Lloyd  George  was  going  out. 

"I'm  not  in  her  confidence,  ma'am,"  replied  my 
friend.  Continuing,  he  suggested  that  he  had  gone  to 
bed  hungry  many  a  night  but  had  n't  minded  in  the 
least  because  he  knew  that  British  ships  were  taking 
the  American  army  to  France.  "Hi've  a  tendency 
to  get  'eavy  hanyway,"  he  continued.  His  views  on 
the  League  of  Nations  were  what  one  usually  heard. 
He  "had  no  confidence  a  man's  neighbors  would  do 
more  for  a  man  than  a  man  would  do  for  himself" ; 
that  "Wilson  was  a  bit  'eady,  and  the  American 
people  'ad  let  'im  down  something  terrible." 

Another  morning,  walking  past  the  Horse  Guards, 
I  noticed,  upon  approaching  the  Mall,  an  enormous 
German  camion  mounted  on  its  heavy  carriage,  the 
wheels  of  which  must  have  had  at  least  five-inch 
tires.  This  engine  of  death,  having  shot  its  last  bolt, 
was  an  object  of  the  greatest  interest  to  the  children 
who  constantly  played  about  it.  As  I  passed  it,  one 


248  MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON 

little  chap,  probably  not  over  four  years  of  age,  was 
kicking  it  forcibly  with  his  little  foot,  his  act  being 
regarded  approvingly  the  while  by  the  Bobby  who 
was  looking  on ;  but  when  finally  he  began  to  climb 
up  on  the  wheel,  from  which  he  could  have  got  a 
nasty  fall,  the  policeman  took  the  little  lad  in  his 
arms,  lifted  him  carefully  to  the  ground,  and  bade 
him  "be  hoff,"  with  the  remark,  "You '11  be  tearing 
that  toy  to  pieces  before  you  are  a  month  older ;  then 
we  won't  'ave  nothing  to  remind  us  of  the  war." 

"I  shouldn't  think  you  were  likely  to  forget  it," 
I  said,  looking  at  his  decorations  and  handing  him  a 
cigar. 

"Well,  sir,"  he  replied,  thanking  me  and  putting 
the  cigar  in  his  helmet,  "it's  curious  how  one  thing 
drives  another  out  of  your  mind  :  I  was  in  it  for  three 
years  and  yet,  except  when  I  look  at  that  gun,  I  can't 
rightly  say  I  give  it  much  thought." 

I  had  an  experience  one  day  which  I  shall  always 
remember,  it  was  so  unexpected  and  far-reaching. 
I  was  sitting  in  the  back  room  of  Sawyer's  bookshop 
in  Oxford  Street,  talking  of  London  and,  rather  espe- 
cially, of  Mr.  W.  W.  Jacobs's  district  thereof,  in 
which  I  had  recently  made  several  interesting  "short 
cruises,"  in  company  with  his  night  watchman  (he 
who  had  a  bad  shilling  festooned  from  his  watch- 
chain,  it  will  be  remembered),  when  I  felt  rather  than 
saw  that,  while  I  was  talking,  a  man  had  entered  and 
seemed  to  be  waiting,  and  rather  impatiently,  to  get 
into  the  conversation.  Now  just  how  it  came  about, 


MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON  249 

I  don't  exactly  know,  but  soon  I  found  myself  sug- 
gesting that  Londoners  know  relatively  little  of  their 
great  city,  and  that  it  was  only  the  enlightened 
stranger  who  really  knew  his  way  about. 

"And  this  to  me,"  said  the  stranger  in  a  harsh, 
strident  voice  of  such  unusual  timbre  that  its  owner 
could  have  made  a  whisper  heard  in  a  rolling-mill. 
"Think  of  it,"  he  continued,  turning  to  Sawyer, 
"that  I  should  live  to  be  bearded  in  my  den  by  a  — 
by  a —  "  He  paused,  not  at  a  loss  for  a  word,  so 
much  as  turning  over  in  his  mind  whether  that  word 
should  be  kindly  or  the  reverse. 

This  gave  me  an  opportunity  of  looking  at  the 
man  who  had  entered,  unasked,  into  the  conversa- 
tion, in  very  much  the  same  way  that  I  had  entered 
into  his  London.  He  was  seemingly  about  sixty 
years  of  age,  short  rather  than  tall,  with  piercing 
eyes  under  bushy  eyebrows,  but  chiefly  remarkable 
for  his  penetrating  voice,  which  he  used  as  an  organ, 
modulating  it  or  giving  it,  at  will,  immense  power. 
One  felt  instinctively  that  he  was  no  patrician,  but 
rather  a  "city  man"  accustomed  to  giving  orders  and 
having  them  obeyed  promptly,  and  having  a  degree 
of  confidence  in  himself  —  say,  rather,  assurance  — 
which  one  associates  with  Chicago  rather  than  with 
London. 

Now  I  am  conceited  enough  to  think  that,  with  the 
ordinary  mortal,  I  can  hold  my  own  in  conversation 
when  London  is  the  subject ;  so  almost  before  I  knew 
it,  I  was  trying  to  make  myself  heard  by  one  who  had 
evidently  decided  to  take  the  lead  in  the  conversa- 


250  MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON 

tion.  The  result  was  that  two  men  were  talking  for 
victory  at  the  same  time,  greatly  to  the  amusement 
of  Sawyer. 

Finally  my  stranger-friend  said,  "Have  you  many 
books  on  London?" 

To  which  I  replied,  relieved  that  the  subject  had 
taken  a  bookish  turn,  "Yes,  about  three  hundred," 
which  number  is,  say,  a  hundred  and  fifty  more  than 
I  actually  possess. 

"I  have  over  six  thousand,"  said  my  friend;  "I 
have  every  book  of  importance  on  London  that  ever 
has  been  written." 

"Yes,"  said  I,  "and  you  have  the  advantage  in  dis- 
covering first  how  many  books  I  had.  If  I  had  been 
as  keen  as  mustard,  as  you  are,  I  would  have  asked 
the  question  and  you  would  have  said  three  hundred ; 
then  I  could  have  said  six  thousand." 

"Listen  to  him,"  roared  my  friend,  "he  even 
doubts  my  word.  Would  you  like  to  see  my  books  ?  " 

"  Have  you  a  copy  of  Stow  ?  "  I  replied,  to  try  him 
out. 

"Yes,"  answered  my  friend,  "every  edition,  in- 
cluding a  presentation  copy  of  the  first  edition  of 
1598,  with  an  inscription  to  the  Lord  Mayor." 

Now,  presentation  copies  of  the  "Survay,"  prop- 
erly regarded  as  the  first  book  on  London,  are  very 
rare.  I  had  never  seen  one,  and  I  replied  that  noth- 
ing would  give  me  greater  pleasure  than  to  see  his 
books ;  when  and  how  could  a  meeting  be  arranged  ? 

"Shall  we  say  next  Thursday  afternoon?" 

"Very  good,  but  where?" 


MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON  251 

"Now,"  continued  my  friend,  "pay  attention. 
Tell  your  second  chauffeur  to  get  out  your  third 
Rolls-Royce  car  —  " 

"Never  mind  my  chauffeurs  and  my  Rolls-Royce 
cars/'  I  interrupted;  "if  you  are  on  the  line  of  a 
penny  bus,  tell  me  how  to  reach  you  from  Piccadilly 
Circus." 

"Good,"  continued  my  friend;  "you  know  the 
Ritz?" 

"From  the  outside,"  I  replied,  "perfectly." 

"Well,  go  to  the  Bobby  who  stands  outside  the 
Ritz,  and  ask  him  to  tell  you  what  bus  to  take  to 
Clapham  Junction,  and  when  you  get  there,  just  ask 
any  Bobby  to  direct  you  to  John  Burns's  on  the  north 
side  of  Clapham  Common." 

John  Burns!  Had  I  heard  aright?  Was  it  pos- 
sible that  I  was  actually  talking  to  John  Burns,  the 
great  labor  leader,  who  had  once  marched  a  small 
army  of  "  Dockers  "  from  the  East  End  of  London  to 
Westminster,  and  who  had  finally  become  an  all- 
powerful  Member  of  Parliament,  and  Privy  Coun- 
cillor, and  President  of  the  Board  of  Trade  and  of 
the  Local  Government  Board ;  John  Burns,  without 
whose  approval  not  a  statue,  not  a  pillar-box  or  a 
fire-plug  had  been  located  for  the  past  twenty  years, 
and  who  had,  when  the  war  broke  out,  resigned  all 
his  offices  of  honor  and  emolument  because  he  could 
not  conscientiously  go  along  with  the  government ! 
As  I  recovered  from  my  astonishment,  John  Burns, 
with  a  fine  sense  of  dramatic  values,  had  disappeared. 
I  looked  at  his  name  and  address  written  in  his  own 


252  MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON 

hand  in  my  little  engagement  book.  "Well,"  said  I 
to  myself,  "that  looks  like  a  perfectly  good  invita- 
tion ;  John  Burns  will  be  expecting  me  about  half- 
past  four,  and  I  am  not  going  to  disappoint  him." 

A  few  days  later,  at  the  hour  appointed,  we  de- 
scended from  a  taxi  and  found  our  friend  awaiting 
us  at  his  front  gate.  Across  the  roadway  stretched 
Clapham  Common,  itself  not  without  historic  in- 
terest ;  but  it  was  a  cold  raw  day  in  late  October,  and 
the  inside  of  a  city  home  is  always  more  interesting 
than  the  outside.  As  I  removed  my  coat,  I  saw  at  a 
glance  that  I  had  not  been  deceived  in  the  number 
of  his  books.  There  were  books  everywhere,  about 
fifteen  thousand  of  them.  All  over  the  house  were 
open  shelves  from  floor  to  ceiling,  with  here  and 
there  a  rare  old  cabinet  packed  with  books,  which 
told  the  life-story  of  their  owner.  Books  are  for 
reading,  for  reference,  and  for  display.  John  Burns 
had  not  stinted  himself  in  any  direction. 

Throwing  open  the  door  of  a  good-sized  room,  in 
which  a  fire  (thank  God !)  was  burning  brightly, 
Burns  said  briefly:  "London,  art  and  architecture 
in  this  room ;  in  the  room  beyond,  political  economy, 
housing  and  social  problems;  rare  books  and  first 
editions  in  the  drawing-room.  Now  come  upstairs. 
Here  is  biography  and  history."  And  then,  throwing 
open  the  door  of  a  small  room,  he  said,  "This  is  my 
work-shop;  here  are  thousands  and  thousands  of 
pamphlets,  carefully  indexed."  On  landing  at  the 
head  of  the  stair,  he  said,  "Newton,  I've  taken  a 
fancy  to  you  and  I'm  going  to  let  you  handle,  care- 


MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON  253 

fully,  mind  you,  the  greatest  collection  of  Sir  Thomas 
More  in  the  world  —  over  six  hundred  items,  twice 
as  many  as  there  are  in  the  British  Museum.  Here 
they  are,  manuscripts,  letters,  first  editions."  Then, 
dropping  the  arrogance  of  the  collector  who  had  made 
his  point,  he  took  up  a  little  copy  of  "Utopia,"  which 
he  had  bought  as  a  boy  for  sixpence,  and  said,  "This 
book  has  made  me  what  I  am ;  for  me  it  is  the  great- 
est book  in  the  world;  it  is  the  first  book  I  ever 
bought,  it  is  the  cornerstone  of  my  library  —  the 
foundation  on  which  I  have  built  my  life.  Now  let 
us  have  tea!" 

During  this  pleasant  function  I  plied  my  host  with 
question  after  question,  and  he,  knowing  that  he  was 
not  being  interviewed,  was  frankness  itself  in  his 
replies.  His  judgment  on  the  great  men  of  England, 
with  whom  he  had  worked  for  a  lifetime,  was  shrewd, 
penetrating,  dispassionate  —  and,  above  all,  kindly  on 
their  conduct  of  the  war.  His  reason  for  not  going 
along  with  the  nation  (he  and  Lord  Morley  were  the 
two  conspicuous  men  in  England  who,  on  the  out- 
break of  the  war,  retired  into  private  life)  was  force- 
ful, if  to  me  unconvincing ;  and  I  quoted  Blake's 
axiom  that  a  man  who  was  unwilling  to  fight  for  the 
truth  might  be  forced  to  fight  for  a  lie,  without  in 
the  least  disturbing  his  equanimity.  My  remark 
about  Blake  served  to  send  the  conversation  in  an- 
othei  direction,  and  we  were  soon  discussing  Blake's 
wife,  whose  maiden  name  he  knew,  and  his  unknown 
grave  in  Bunhill  Fields,  as  if  the  cause  and  effect  of 
the  Great  War  were  questions  that  could  be  dis- 


254  MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON 

missed.  Seeing  a  large  signed  photograph  of  Lord 
Morley  on  the  wall,  and  a  copy  of  his  "Life  of  Glad- 
stone" and  his  own  "Recollections"  on  the  shelves, 
I  voiced  my  opinion  that  his  friend  was  the  author 
of  five  of  the  dullest  volumes  ever  written  —  an 
opinion  I  would  be  glad  to  debate  with  all  comers. 

In  reply  to  my  question  as  to  how  he  had  accom- 
plished so  much  reading,  leading,  as  he  has  done  for 
so  many  years,  the  life  of  a  busy  public  man,  he  an- 
swered: "I  read  quickly,  have  a  good  memory" 
(there  is  no  false  modesty  about  John  Burns),  "and 
I  never  play  golf." 

"Well,  I  am  like  you  in  one  respect." 

"What's  that?"  he  asked;  and  then  with  a  laugh, 
"You  don't  play  golf,  I  suppose." 

What  I  thought  was  my  time  to  score  came  when 
he  began  to  speak  French,  which  I  never  understand 
unless  it  is  spoken  with  a  strong  English  accent ;  this 
gave  me  a  chance  to  ask  him  whether  he  had  not, 
like  Chaucer's  nun,  studied  at  Stratford-Atte-Bowe, 
as  evidently  "the  French  of  Paris"  was  to  him  "un- 
knowe";  he  laughed  heartily,  and  instantly  con- 
tinued the  quotation.  But  anyone  who  attempts  to 
heckle  John  Burns  has  his  work  cut  out  for  him ;  a 
man  who  has  harangued  mobs  in  the  East  End  of 
London  and  elsewhere,  and  held  his  own  against  all 
comers  in  the  House  of  Commons,  and  who  has  re- 
ceived honorary  degrees  for  solid  accomplishment 
from  half  a  dozen  universities,  is  not  likely  to  feel  the 
pin-pricks  of  an  admirer.  And  when  the  time  came 
for  us  (for  my  wife  was  with  me)  to  part,  as  it  did  all 


MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON  255 

too  soon,  it  was  with  the  understanding  that  we  were 
to  meet  again  to  do  some  walking  and  book-hunting 
together;  and  anyone  who  has  John  Burns  for  a 
guide  in  London,  as  I  have  had,  is  not  likely  soon  to 
forget  the  joys  of  the  experience. 
Holidays  at  last  come  to  an  end. 

If  all  the  year  were  playing  holidays, 
To  sport  would  be  as  tedious  as  to  work. 

We  came  home,  and  our  first  impressions  were  those 
of  annoyance.  As  a  nation,  we  have  no  manners; 
one  might  have  supposed  that  we,  rather  than  the 
English,  had  had  our  nervous  systems  exposed  to  the 
shock  of  battle ;  that  we,  rather  than  they,  had  been 
subject  to  air-raids  and  to  the  deprivations  of  war ; 
that  we  had  become  a  debtor  rather  than  a  creditor 
nation.  We  found  rudeness  and  surliness  every- 
where. The  man  in  the  street  had  a  "grouch,"  de- 
spite the  fact  that  he  was  getting  more  pay  for  less 
work  than  any  other  man  in  the  world,  and  that  the 
President  had  told  him  that  he  had  an  inalienable 
right  to  strike.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  felt 
that  "labor  would  have  to  liquidate,"  to  use  a  phrase 
to  which,  in  the  past,  I  have  greatly  objected.  No 
question  was  civilly  answered.  The  porter  who 
carried  our  bags  took  a  substantial  tip  with  a  sneer, 
and  passed  on.  It  may  be  that  America  is  "  the  land 
of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave  "  ;  but  we  found 
our  cities  dangerous,  noisy,  and  hideously  filthy.  It 
is  not  pleasant  to  say  these  things,  but  they  are  true. 

THE   END 


INDEX 


INDEX 


ADAM,  ROBERT  B.,  110. 

ADAM,  ROBERT  B.,  JR.,  his  collection  of 
Johnsoniana,  109-111,  242,  243. 

Adams,  Henry,  The  Education  of,  103. 

ADAMS,  JOHN,  189. 

ADVERTISING,  value  of,  94  Jf.;  and 
Liberty  Bonds,  95  ;  in  18th  Century, 
95 Jf.;  in  English  newspapers,  98,  99 ; 
possibilities  of,  99 ;  in  the  book  busi- 
ness, 100  /.,  106,  107;  a  form  of 
boasting,  104;  "slogans"  in,  104- 
106;  a  profession,  not  a  trade,  108. 

ADVERTISING,  bill-boards,  105,  106. 

AINSWORTH,  HARRISON,  Jack  Sheppard, 
236. 

Amenities  of  Book-Collecting,  The,  suc- 
cess of,  41  Jf. 

AMERICAN  BOOKSELLERS'  ASSOCIATION, 
105,  107. 

ANNE,  QUEEN,  189. 

ARMISTICE  DAT  ^1920),  celebration  of , 
in  London,  240,  241. 

ARNOLD,  WILLIAM  HARRIS,  on  the 
welfare  of  the  bookstore,  73,  75,  76 ; 
114. 

ASHFORD,  DAISY,  The  Young  Visiters, 
82. 

ASQUITH,  MRS.  "MARGOT,"  211. 

Atlantic  Monthly,  40,  73,  82,  110. 

AUGUSTA,  PRINCESS,  mother  of  George 
III,  9. 

AUSTEN,  JANE,  228. 

BABST,  EARL  D.,  135  n. 
BAKER,  NEWTON  D.,  139. 
BALLARD,  ELLIS  AMES,  107. 
BARDELL  vs.  PICKWICK,  1-3. 
BARBIE,  SIR  JAMES  M.,  82. 
BARTLETT,  JOHN,  Familiar  Quotations, 

200. 
BART'S.  See  St.  Bartholomew's  Hospital. 


BARTLETT  AND  POLLARD'S  Census,  128. 

BASIRE,  engraver,  200. 

BEACONSFIELD,  EARL  OF,  Endymion,  74. 

BECKET,  SAINT  THOMAS  a,  124,  214. 

BEECHAM,  SIR  JOSEPH,  99. 

BEECHAM'S  PILLS,  98. 

BEERBOHM,  MAX,  141. 

BENNETT,  ARNOLD,  in  Phila.,  182,  183, 
184,  192,  193;  presentation  copy  of 
Buried  Alive,  194,  195. 

BERGENGREN,  RALPH,  Jane,  Joseph 
and  John,  79. 

BILLS  OF  EXCHANGE,  A.  E.  N.  as  a 
drafter  of,  34,  35. 

BIRHELL,  AUGUSTINE,  101. 

BLACK  JACK  TAVERN,  236. 

BLAIR,  HUGH,  The  Grave,  Blake's  il- 
lustrations for,  216,  220. 

BLAKE,  MRS.  CATHERINE  (BOUCHER), 
207,  238,  253. 

BLAKE,  WILLIAM,  his  prophetic,  or 
mystical  books,  197-199,  210,  211. 
219;  his  birth  and  education,  199, 
200;  apprenticed  to  an  engraver, 
200 ;  character  of  his  engraving,  201, 
218;  a  Japanese  biographer  of, 
quoted,  201,  202;  marries  Catherine 
Boucher,  202;  his  industry,  202; 
makes  and  sells  his  own  books,  202; 
neglected  during  his  lifetime,  203; 
first  editions  of,  very  rare,  203;  his 
Poetical  Sketches,  204,  205 ;  "Spring," 
205;  "To  the  Evening  Star,"  205; 
Songs  of  Innocence  and  Songs  of  Ex- 
perience, inspiration  of,  205,  206; 
his  own  publisher,  206 ; "  The  Piper," 
207;  his  method  of  engraving  in  re- 
lief, 207,  208;  "The  Lamb,"  208; 
"The  Tiger,"  209;  his  subsequent 
poetical  work  considered,  210;  his 
books  widely  scattered,  210,  211; 


260 


INDEX 


The  Marriage  of  Heaven  and  Hell,  211, 
213;  the  author's  collection  of  his 
works,  212  jf.;  illustrations  of  the 
Book  of  Job,  212,  213,  216-218; 
"Gates  of  Paradise,"  214,  220  and 
"Key  to  the  Gates,"  214;  Canter- 
bury Pilgrims,  214,  215  and  n.,  218 ; 
illustrations  for  Blair's  Grave,  216, 
220,  Young's  Night  Thoughts,  216, 
and  Hayley's  Bollards,  218;  The 
Beggar's  Opera,  218 ;  merit  of  draw- 
ings in  his  prophetic  books,  218; 
Songs  of  Innocence  and  of  Experience, 
218 ;  Urizen,  218,  219 ;  America,  219 ; 
Europe,  219;  as  a  man,  misunder- 
stood, 219,  220 ;  his  death  and  burial, 
220;  his  grave  unmarked,  220,  238, 
253;  his  design,  "Death's  Door," 
220,  221;  196,  197. 

BODLEIAN  LIBRARY,  64,  127. 

BONAPARTE,  NAPOLEON,  24. 

BONNELL,  H.  H.,  45. 

BOOK-BUTING,  76  jf. 

BOOKSELLERS,  tribulations  of,  76  ff.; 
suggestions  to,  84  Jf.  And  see  Rare- 
book  departments,  Second-hand 
books. 

BOOKSELLERS,  NATIONAL  ASSOCIATION 
OF,  99,  100. 

BOOKSHOPS,  and  competition  of  de- 
partment stores,  81,  82;  suggestions 
for  window  display  in,  106,  107; 
should  furnish  a  post-graduate  course 
in  literature,  107,  108. 

BOSWELL,  JAMES,  and  Traubel,  158; 
his  Life  of  Johnson,  101,  111,  113, 
245;  38,  40,  41,  109,  110,  199,  242. 

BOUCHER,  CATHERINE,  marries  W. 
Blake,  202. 

"Boz,"  Dickens's  pen-name,  derivation 
of,  1. 

BRAWNE,  FANNY,  118,  119,  122. 

BRAYBROOKE,  LORD,  editor  of  Pepys's 
Diary,  68. 

BRENTANO'S,  89. 

BRIDGES,  HORACE  J.,  Our  Fellow  Shake- 
speare, 129,  130. 


BRITISH  EMPIRE,  Armistice  Day  in 
(1920),  240,  241. 

BRITISH  MUSEUM,  128,  211. 

BROWN  BROS.  &  Co.,  34,  35. 

BROWN,  SHIPLEY  &  Co.,  34. 

BROWNE,  F.  MADOX,  154. 

BROWNING,  ELIZABETH  B.,  119. 

BROWNING,  ROBERT,  Men  and  Women, 
63;  119,  198. 

BRYAN,  WILLIAM  J.,  224. 

BUCK,  DR.,  sale  of  his  Whitman  col- 
lection, 147. 

BUNHILL  FIELDS  BURYING  GROUND, 
63,  64,  220,  237,  238,  253. 

BUNYAN,  JOHN,  his  tomb  in  Bunhill 
Fields,  237,238;  220. 

BURKE,  EDMUND,  attacks  Hastings's 
administration,  10,  11,  12;  his  open- 
ing speech  in  the  Hastings  trial,  16, 
17 ;  18,  19,  23,  24. 

BURNEY,  FRANCES,  14,  15,  17,  20,  242. 

BURNEY,  JAMES,  17. 

BURNS,  JOHN,  the  author's  chance 
meeting  and  conversation  with, 
248  jf.;  his  career,  251;  his  library, 
252,  253. 

BURNS,  ROBERT,  Kilmarnock  edition, 
49,  204. 

"BuY  A  BOOK  A  WEEK,"  suggested  as 
slogan  for  booksellers,  100  and  n., 
102,  103  and  n. 

BYRON,  LORD,  and  Leigh  Hunt,  115; 
114. 

CADBURY,  MR.,  117. 

CAMDEN,   N.  J.,    Whitman's    life  in, 

145,  146,  153,  154. 
CAREW,  THOMAS,  Poems,  63,  64. 
CARLYLE,  THOMAS,  and  Dr.  Johnson, 

compared,  241. 
CARNEGIE,  ANDREW,  73,  78. 
CARSON,  HAMPTON  L.,  26  n. 
CENTENNIAL  EXPOSITION,  (1876),  130, 

156. 

CHARLES  1, 173. 

CHARLES  II,  Rochester's  verses  on,  113. 
CHARLOTTE,  QUEEN,   10,   20. 


INDEX 


261 


CHAUCER,  GEOFFREY,  85,  124. 

CHESHIRE  CHEESE,  THE,  47,  243. 

CHESTERFIELD,  LORD,  178. 

CHESTERTON,  G.  K.,  3. 

CHEVALIER,  ALBERT,  171. 

CHEW,  BEVERLY,  60. 

CHIMNEY-SWEEP,  a,  174,  175. 

CLAWSON,  JOHN  L.,  126,  214. 

CLEMENS,  SAMUEL  L.,  75,  142. 

CLIVE,  LORD,  9. 

CLUB,  THE,  45  and  n.,  46. 

CLUB  OF  ODD  VOLUMES,  43. 

COCHRAN,  MR.,  125. 

COCKNEY  DIALECT,  the,  171,  177. 

COLERIDGE,  S.  T.,  124. 

COLVIN,  SIR  SIDNEY,  120,  121. 

CONGRESSIONAL  LIBRARY,  126. 

CONRAD,  JOSEPH,  81. 

CONTEMPORARY  CLUB,  146. 

CRAIG,  FRANK,  in  Phila.,  181  /.;  taken 

by  the  author  to  see  the  sights,  186- 

192;  at  Lynnewood  Hall,  192-194; 

his  parting  gift,  195. 
CRAWFORD,  WILLIAM,  50. 
CREWE,  EARL  OF,  217. 
CROMEK,  MR.,  art  publisher,  pilloried 

by  Blake,  216. 
CURTIS,  CYRUS  H.  K.,  his  career,  91, 

92. 
CURTIS  PUBLISHING  Co.,  92. 

DANIELS,  JOSEPHUS,  139. 

DANTE,  219. 

DAYLESFORD,  England,  4,  5,  6,  9,  19, 
20,  21,  28,  29,  30,  31,  32. 

DAYLESFORD,  Penn.,  3  jf.,  26,  31. 

DEFOE,  DANIEL,  his  grave,  63,  64; 
Robinson  Crusoe,  64,  65 ;  Journal  of 
the  Plague  Year,  65,  66 ;  M oil  Flan- 
ders, 66 ;  220,  238. 

DELANO,  MR.,  35. 

DEPARTMENT  STORES,  and  the  book 
business,  81,  82,  83;  and  publishers, 
82. 

Dere  Mable,  82. 

DICKENS,  CHARLES,  Pickicick  Papers, 
1-3;  the  Christmas  Carol,  170; 


Nicholas  Nickleby,  237. 

DISRAELI,  BENJAMIN.  See  Beacons- 
field,  Earl  of. 

D'ISRAELI,  ISAAC,  41. 

DOBELL,  SYDNEY,  147. 

DOBSOX,  AUSTIN,  69. 

DORE,  GUSTAVE,  219. 

DOUBLED  AY,  PAGE  &  Co.,  75,  150. 

DRAKE,  Sm  FRANCIS,  67. 

DRAKK,  JAMES  F.,  bookseller,  135,  136. 

DRINKWATER,  JOHN,  Abraham  Lincoln, 
80,  81. 

DUTTON  &  Co.,  E.  P.,  89. 

DYBLE,  MRS,  custodian  of  Johnson 
House,  241,  242,  243,  244. 

EAST  INDIA  Co.,  29,  30. 
ELIZABETHAN  CLUB,  125  and  n. 
ELKINS,  WILLIAM  M.,  Ill,  119. 
ELLEN,  Gus,  171. 
ELLENBOROUGH,  LORD  CHIEF  JUSTICE. 

See  Law,  Edward. 
EMERSON,  R.  W.,  and  Leaves- of  Grass, 

149,  150;  56,  142. 
ENGLAND,  advertising  in,  98,  104. 
ENGLISHMEN,  and  pictures,  201. 
ERSKINE,  LORD,  12. 
EVELYN,  JOHN,  67. 

FIELDING,  HENRY,  Tom  Jones,  in  the 

department  store,  82,  83. 
FIELDS,  ANNIE  (Mrs.  James  T.),  102. 
FIRUSKI'S  BOOKSHOP,  86. 
FlTZHERBERT,  MRS.  MARIA  A.  S.,  22. 
FOLGER,  H.  C.,  125. 
FOWLER  &  WELLS,  150. 
Fox,  CHARLES  JAMES,  12,  17,  18,  19, 

23. 

FRANCE,  advertising  in,  104. 
FRANCIS,  SIR  PHILIP,  8,  11,  23. 
FRANKLIN,  BENJAMIN,  grave  of,  189- 

191;  his  proposed  epitaph,  190;  211. 
FRANKLIN  CLUB,  Phila.,  143. 
FREDERICK  THE  GREAT,  20,  21. 
FRENCH  REVOLUTION,  24. 
FURNESS,  H.  H.,  the  variorum  Hamlet, 

129 ;  183. 


262 


INDEX 


GABLE,  WILLIAM  F.,  147. 

GARRICK,  DAVID,  couplet  on  Gold- 
smith, 113,  114;  242. 

GAT,  H.  NELSON,  121. 

GAT,  JOHN,  The  Beggar  s  Opera,  239. 

GEORGE  III,  9,  10,  11,  12,  14,  20. 

GEORGE,  PRINCE  OF  WALES  (afterward 
George  IV,)  14,  22. 

GEORGE  V,  241. 

GIBBON,  EDWARD,  56. 

GILBERT,  W.  S.,  and  SULLIVAN,  SIR 
ARTHUR,  Pinafore,  133. 

GILCHRIST,  ALEXANDER,  203,  204,  207, 
212,  217,  219,  221. 

GILCHRIST,  ANNE,  and  Whitman,  154- 
156 ;  her  Estimate  of  Walt  Whitman, 
155. 

GILCHRIST,  HERBERT,  son  of  Anne,  156. 

GILCHRIST,  HERBERT,  son  of  Alexander, 
212. 

GIROMETTI,  his  plaster  portrait  of 
Keats,  121. 

GODWIN,  WILLIAM,  236,  237. 

"GOLDEN  KEY,  THE,"  50,  51. 

GOLDSMITH,  OLIVER,  Threnodia  Au- 
gustalis,  111;  mezzotint  of,  111,  112; 
Garrick's  couplet  on,  113,  114;  Bos- 
well's  anecdotes  of,  113,  114;  auto- 
graph of,  123;  46,  97,  242. 

GRAHAM,  BESSIE,  107. 

GRASBURGER,  GEORGE,  146. 

GRAY,  THOMAS,  Elegy,  200  and  n. 

GREENE,  BELLE  DA  COSTA,  128  n.,  206. 

GHOLIER  CLUB,  211,  217. 

GUMMERE,  FRANCIS  B.,  43,  44,  45. 

"GUTENBERG,  MRS."  48,  49. 

GUTENBERG  BIBLE,  48. 

HACKETT,  BYRNE,  86. 

HAGEN,  W.  H.,  60. 

HAIG,  SIR  DOUGLAS,  137. 

HALE,  EDWARD  EVERETT,  150. 

HARDIE,  KEIR,  233. 

HARDY,  THOMAS,  106. 

HARE,  NURSE,  at  Bart's,  166,  170,  176. 

HARMSWORTH,  CECIL,  241,  243,  244. 

HARNED,  THOMAS  B.,  Letters  of  Anne 


Gilchrist  to  Walt  Whitman,  154-156. 

Harper's  Monthly,  82. 

HARVEY,  WILLIAM,   173. 

HASLAM,  MR.,  121. 

HASTINGS,  WARREN,  early  history  of, 
6 ;  in  India,  6,  7 ;  his  second  marriage, 
7;  career  of,  in  India,  1  ff. ;  return 
to  England,  9,  10 ;  his  administration 
attacked,  10,  11;  impeachment  and 
trial  of,  12jf.;  purchases  Dayles- 
ford,  19,  20;  acquitted,  25,  26;  his 
last  years,  26jf.;4,  5. 

HASTINGS,  MRS.  WARREN,  Hastings's 
first  wife,  6. 

HASTINGS,  MRS.  WARREN,  Hastings's 
second  wife,  7,  9,  10,  28,  31. 

HAY,  HENRY  HANBY,  45  and  n. 

HAYLEY,  WILLIAM,  Blake's  illustra- 
tions for  his  Ballads,  218 ;  202. 

HELLMAN,  GEORGE,  184,  185. 

HENKELS,  STAN.,  140. 

HENRY  I,  172. 

HENRY  VIII,  173,  177. 

HERQESHEIMER,  JOSEPH,  81. 

HERRICK,  ROBERT,  Hesperides,  62,  63; 
205. 

HIBBEN,  JOHN  G.,  54,  55. 

HILL,  BIRKBECK,  quoted,  110. 

HOE,  ROBERT,  sale  of  his  library,  48. 

HOGARTH,  WILLIAM,  218. 

HOGG,  JAMES,  76. 

HUNT,  LEIGH,  his  books  and  character, 

114,  115;  his  relations  with  Byron, 

115,  Shelley,  115,  and  Keats,  115, 
116;  The  Examiner,  115,  116;  Son- 
net to  Keats,  116;  42. 

HUNTINGTON,  H.  E.,  his  "first  quarto" 

Hamlet,  128;  48,  213. 
HUTT,  HENRY,  167,  236. 

IBANEZ,  V.  B.,  Four  Horsemen  of  the 
Apocalypse,  74,  82,  103. 

IMHOFF,  BARON  VON,  7. 

IMHOFF,  BARONESS  VON,  Hastings's 
second  wife,  7.  And  see  Hastings, 
Mrs.  Warren,  number  two. 

IMPERATOR,  the,  224,  225,  226,  228. 


INDEX 


263 


INDIA,  Hastings's  career  in,  7  ff.,  16,  17. 
INGERSOLL,  R.  G.,  146. 
IRELAND,     ALEXANDER,      The     Book- 
Lover's  Enchiridion,  101,  102. 

JACKSON,  HOLBROOK,  quoted,  on  Whit- 
man, 141,  142. 

JACKSON,  JOHN,  71. 

JACOBS,  W.  W.,  248. 

JAMES'S  FEVER  POWDERS,  97,  98. 

JASTROW,  JOSEPH,   55. 

JOHNSON,  SAMUEL,  on  advertising,  95, 
96,  108;  Dictionary,  publication  of, 
how  announced,  96,  97 ;  and  Gold- 
smith, 113,  114;  Whitman's  opinion 
of,  157,  158;  and  Carlyle,  241; 
McFadden  portrait  of,  244,  245  and 
n. ;  15,  35,  38,  40,  42,  46,  47,  48,  109, 
110,  111,  155,  198,  199,  200.  And 
see  Johnson  House. 

JOHNSON  CLUB,  241. 

JOHNSON  HOUSE,  Gough  Square,  Lon- 
don, the  author's  visit  to,  241  ff. 

JONES,  HERSCHEL  V.,  sale  of  his  li- 
brary, 213,  214. 

JONSON,  BEN,  47. 

"JUNTOS,"  LETTERS  OF,  8. 

KANSAS  CITT  STAR,  50. 

KEATS,  JOHN,  his  relations  with  Hunt, 
115,  116;  Hunt's  sonnet  to,  116; 
Miss  Lowell's  MS  of  The  Eve  of  St. 
Agnes,  118 ;  her  copy  of  Lamia,  118 ; 
the  author's  collection  of,  119,  120; 
Severn's  portrait  of,  120;  centenary 
of  his  death,  120 ;  his  grave  in  Rome, 
120,  121 ;  Girometti's  plaster  por- 
trait of,  121;  letters  to  Fanny 
Braune,  122;  43,  114,  241. 

KEATS-SHELLEY  MEMORIAL,  120,  122. 

KENNERLET,  MITCHELL,  59,  214. 

KETNES,  GEOFFREY,  211. 

KEYNES,  JOHN  M.,  The  Economic  Con- 
sequences of  the  Peace,  139  n. 

KIPLING,  RUDYARD,  Poems,  135,  136; 
106,  107. 

KlTTREDGE,  GEORGE  L.,  32,  44,  45. 


LAHEY,  MARGUERITE,  128  n. 

LAMB,  CHARLES,  32,  114,  142,  174,  209. 
215. 

LANGLAND,  WILLIAM,  Piers  Plowman, 
60. 

LAW,  EDWARD,  defends  Hastings,  12, 
21,  24. 

LAWLER,  MR.,  77,  78. 

LE  GALLIENNE,  RICHARD,  Travels  in 
England,  32. 

LEAHY'S  BOOKSHOP,  Phila.,  77,  78,  229. 

LIBERTY  BONDS,  advertising  campaign 
in,  95. 

LINCOLN,  A.,  142. 

LINNELL,  WILLIAM,  212. 

LISZT,  FRANZ,  232. 

LLOYD  GEORGE,  MRS.  DAVID,  247. 

LOCKE,  WILLIAM  J.,  81. 

LONDON,  the  author's  affection  for, 
222;  after  the  war,  222 ff.;  foreign- 
ers in,  224 ;  life  in  an  apartment  in, 
231 ;  cleaning  up  of  slums  in,  232 ; 
extremes  meet  in,  232,  233,  235; 
Nevill's  Court,  233,  234 ;  system  of 
transportation  in,  best  in  the  world, 
235;  great  changes  in,  235,  236; 
Oxford  St.,  236 ;  Saracen's  Head,  237 ; 
Armistice  Day  in  (1920),  240,  241; 
museums  and  memorials  in,  241 ; 
the  Johnson  House,  241^.;  the 
Museum,  245,  246;  police  force  of, 
246-248 ;  books  on,  249,  250. 

LONDON  Daily  Advertiser,  specimen 
eighteenth-century  advertisements  in, 
96,  97. 

LONDON  MUSEUM,  the,  formerly  Staf- 
ford House,  245,  246. 

LORIMER,  GEORGE  HORACE,  184,  185. 

Louis  XVI,  24. 

LOVELACE,  RICHARD,  63. 

LOWELL,  AMY,  a  visit  to  her  library, 
116,  117;  her  Keats  collection,  118, 
119;  114,  199,  245  n. 

LUCAS,  E.  V.,  Adventures  and  Enthu- 
siasms, 233. 

"LYNNEWOOD  HALL,"  P.  A.  B.  Wide- 
ner's  estate,  192-194. 


264 


INDEX 


McCLURG,  A.  C.  &  Co.,  89. 

McFADDEN,  JOHN  H.,  portrait  of 
Johnson  owned  by,  244,  245  and  n. 

McKENZiE,  R.  TAIT,  143,  238. 

McLxNAHAN,  HAWLEY,  112. 

MACAULAY,  IX>RD,  essay  on  Warren 
Hastings,  5,  6,  7,  14. 

MAGDALENE  COLLEGE,  Cambridge,  68. 

MAGGS  BROTHERS,  26  n. 

MALONE,  EDMUND,  his  collection  of 
Shakespeare  quartos,  127;  the  "un- 
dated Hamlet,"  127,  128. 

MANN,  SIR  HORACE,  87. 

MANSFIELD,  LORD,  25. 

MARIE  ANTOINETTE,  24. 

MARKOE,  MRS.  JOHN,  187. 

MEREDITH,  GEORGE,  80. 

METROPOLITAN  MCSEUM,  217. 

MEYNELL,  ALICE,  87. 

MEYNELL,  EVERARD,  87. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO,  219. 

MIFFLIN,  ROGER,  85. 

MILNES,  R.  MONCKTON  (Lord  Hough- 
ton),  119. 

MILTON,  JOHN,  Paradise  last,  103  n. 

MITCHELL,  S.  WEIR,  183. 

MOORE,  GEORGE,  81. 

MORE,  SIR  THOMAS,  John  Burns's  col- 
lection of  his  works,  253 ;  his  Utopia, 
253. 

MORGAN,  J.  P.,  84,  114,  206,  217. 

MORLEY,  CHRISTOPHER,  "Abou  A. 
Edward,"  42;  Sonnet  on  Pepys,  70; 
"The  Eighth  Sin,"  71 ;  Parnassus  on 
Wheels,  85,  86;  "In  an  Auction 
Room,"  122,  123. 

MORLEY,  VISCOUNT,  the  author's  opin- 
ion of  his  Life  of  Gladstone,  and  Rec- 
ollections, 251. 

MORRIS,  WILLIAM,  87,  88. 

MORSHEAD,  O.  F.,  67. 

MOSHER,  T.  B.,  his  reprint  of  the 
Leaves  of  Grass,  147-149 ;  and  Blake, 
203,  218 ;  88. 

MUN,  THOMAS,  England* s  Treasure  by 
Forraign  Trade,  52. 

MtrRDOCK,  HAROLD,  44. 


New  Republic,  The,  quoted,  on  advertis- 
ing in  the  future,  99. 

NEW  YORK  CITY,  bookshops  in,  89; 
224,  225. 

NEWTON,  MRS.  A.  E.,  93,  94,  178,  179, 
180,  181,  215  n.,  254. 

NICHOLSON,  WATSON,  65. 

"ON  SALE."     See  Publishers. 
OSGOOD,  C.  G.,  242. 

PAGE,  WALTER  HINES,  75. 

PASSPORTS,  difficulties  in  procuring, 
224,  225. 

PENN,  WILLIAM,  186. 

PENNELL,  JOSEPH,  105,  145,  146,  236. 

PEPYS,  SAMUEL,  Diary,  66  ff.;  Memoirs 
relating  to  the  State  of  the  Royal  Navy, 
69,  71 ;  orthography  of  his  name,  70, 
72;  letter  to  Jackson,  71. 

PEPYSIAN  LIBRARY,  66,  67,  68. 

PERRY,  BLISS,  148. 

PERRY,  MARSDEN  J.,  128. 

PETERSON,  MR.,  surgeon  at  Bart's, 
repairs  the  author,  162,  163,  164, 165, 
176. 

PHILADELPHIA,  climate  of,  185 ;  Craig 
sees  the  sights  of,  186-195;  "Old 
Swedes  Church,"  186,  187;  St. 
Peter's  and  St.  Peter's  "set,"  187, 
188;  Christ  Church,  188,  189;  Car- 
penter's Hall  and  State  House,  189 ; 
grave  of  Franklin,  190,  191 ;  Quaker 
Meeting  House,  191;  Fairmount 
waterworks,  191. 

PHILADELPHIA  ASSEMBLY,  187. 

PHILADELPHIA  Public  Ledger,  91. 

PICCADILLY  HOTEL,  London,  224. 

PINERO,  SIR  A.  W.,  Iris,  84. 

PITT,  WILLIAM,  the  younger,  11,  12. 

POPE,  ALEXANDER,  his  Homer,  129; 
199,  200. 

PORTER  &  COATES,  33,  34. 

PRATT,  ISAAC  HULL,  140,  141. 

Publisher's  Confessions,  A,  75. 

PUBLISHERS,  disposing  of  publications 
"on  sale"  by,  73,  74;  nature  of  busi- 


INDEX 


265 


ness  of,  74  jf. ;  and  department  stores, 
81. 
PUTNAM'S,  GEORGE  P.,  SONS,  89. 

QUARITCH,  BERNARD,  and  Miss  Lowell, 
117,  118;  203. 

KAHERK,  founder  of   Bart's,  172,  173. 

RALEIGH,  SIR  WALTER,  53,  54,  55. 

"RARE-BOOK  DEPARTMENTS,"  book- 
sellers advised  to  establish,  84s  Jf., 
89,  90. 

REPPLIER,  AGNES,  183. 

RESTORATION  PLAYS,  62. 

REYNOLDS,  SIR  JOSHUA,  15. 

RIDGLEY,  REV.  LAWRENCE  B.,  196. 

RIGBY,  GEORGE,  77,  111,  112. 

ROBERTSON,  GRAHAM,  211. 

ROCHESTER,  EARL  OF,  verses  on  Charles 
II,  113. 

RODIN,  AUGUSTE,  the  Thinker,  198. 

ROME  BROTHERS,  148. 

ROME,  Keats-Shelley  Memorial  in,  120, 
122;  Keats's  grave  in,  120,  121. 

ROOSEVELT,  THEODORE,  his  slogans, 
104;  137. 

ROSEBERY,  LORD,  28. 

ROSENBACH,  A.  S.  W.  ("Rosy"),  77, 
119,  128,  129,  215  n. 

ROSENBACH  Co.,  126,  127. 

ROSSETTI,  D.  G.,  "Keats  Sixty  Years 
Dead,"  122,  123;  119,  154. 

ROSSETTI,  W.  M.,  his  edition  of  Whit- 
man's Leaves,  154 ;  his  enthusiasm 
for  Whitman,  155 ;  212,  219. 

ROUSSEAU,  J.  J.,  68. 

ROWELL,  MRS.,  242,  244. 

SABIN,  F.  T.,  120. 

ST.  BARTHOLOMEW'S  HOSPITAL,  Lon- 
don, the  author's  sojourn  at,  with  a 
broken  leg,  161  jf.;  story  of  the 
founding  of,  172, 173 ;  the  "  right  shop 
for  fractures,"  173;  Pitcairn  Ward 
in,  173,  174,  175;  shaving  in,  176; 
farewell  to,  177. 

SARACEN'S  HEAD  INN,  237. 


Saturday  Evening  Post,  92. 
SAVOY  HOTEL,  London,  223. 
SAWYER,  Mr.,  bookseller,  121,  248, 249, 

250. 

SCHELLING,  FELIX  E.,  45,  62. 
SCHIAVONETTI,  Louis,  engraver,  216. 
SCHWAB,  CHARLES  M.,  84. 
SCOTT,  SIR  WALTER,  75,  76. 
SCRIBNER'S,  CHARLES,  SONS,  89. 
Scribners  Magazine,  82. 
SECOND-HAND  BOOKS,  84  Jf.,  89. 
SELBORNE,  229,  230. 
"SERENDIPITY  SHOP,  THE,"  87. 
SESSLER,  CHARLES,  77. 
SEVERN,  JOSEPH,  his  portrait  of  Keats, 

120;  116. 

SEVERN,  WALTER,  120. 
SHAKESPEARE,  WILLIAM,  Poems,  103  n. ; 

Hamlet,  103  n. ;  quartos  of  the  plays, 

125,    126/.;    Julius    Caesar,    127; 

Pericles,  127;   Troilus  and  Cressida, 

127;  the" undated  Hamlet,"  127,  128 

and    n. ;    the  earlier  Hamlets,   128; 

Hamlst  the  play,  129,  130. 
SHERIDAN,  R.  B.,  12,  18,  19. 
SHIELDS,  JAMES,  77. 
SHOP-WINDOWS,  advertising  value  of, 

106. 

Simpkin  the  Second,  Letters  from,   23. 
"SIMPSON'S,"  47,  222,  223. 
SKELTON,    JOHN,    poems,    60;    Pithy, 

Pleasaunt  and  Profitable  Works,  61, 62. 
SLOGANS   in   the   book-business,    100, 

102 /, 

SMITH,  GEORGE  MURRAY,  29. 
SMITH,  ELDER  &  Co.,  29. 
SOUTHAMPTON,  England,  228. 
SPENSER,  EDMUND,  Colin  Clout's  Come 

Home  Again,  61,  62;  Faerie  Queene, 

62;  125, 

SPOOR,  J.  A.,  114. 
STEELE,  RICHARD,  45  n. 
STERRY,  ASHBY,  72. 
STETSON,  JOHN  B.,  114. 
STEVEXSON,    R.    L.,    Travels    unth    a 

Donkey,  86;  79,  80. 
STIRLING,  CAPTAIN,  211. 


266 


INDEX 


STONE,  WILBUR  M.,  206. 
STOTHARD,  THOMAS,  214,  215,  216. 
STOW,  JOHN,  his  Survay  of  London,  250. 
STRUTHERS,  PETER,  letter  from,  51. 
STUART,  EDWARD,  77. 
SUCKLING,  SIR  JOHN,  63. 
SUTHERLAND,  DUCHESS  OF,  246. 
SWINBURNE,  A.  C.,  154,  199,  219. 

TAIT  GALLERY,  211. 

TARKINGTON,  BOOTH,  182. 

TAYLOR,  DR.,  of  Ashbourne,  244. 

TENNYSON,  ALFRED,  114,  119. 

THAYER  &  ELDRIDGE,  publish  third 
edition  of  Whitman's  Leaves  of  Grass, 
151-153. 

THOREAU,  H.  D.,  197. 

THRALE,  HESTER  LYNCH,  54,  242. 

THURLOW,  LORD  CHANCELLOR,  12,  14, 
16,  17,  18,  21,  25. 

THURSTON,  Miss,  128  n.,  206. 

TINKER,  CHAUNCEY  B.,  77,  242. 

TITANIC,  sinking  of,  194. 

TRAUBEL,  HORACE,  With  Watt  Whit- 
man in  Canada,  38,  141,  158;  Whit- 
man's Boswell,  158;  37. 

TRENT,  WILLIAM  P.,  64. 

TREVELYAN,  SIR  G.  O.,  13. 

TROLLOPE,  ANTHONY,  quoted,  62;  The 
Warden,  229. 

TWAIN,  MARK.    See  Clemens,  S.  L. 

UNITED  STATES,  conditions  in,  255. 

VALLEY  FORGE,  4. 
VICTORIA,  QUEEN,  246. 

WALDEN  POND,  196,  197. 
WALDO,  FULLER-TON,  239,  240. 
WALLERSTEIN,  DAVID,  233. 
WALPOLE,  HORACE,  his  copy  of  White's 

Selborne  owned  by  author,  229;  87, 

98. 

WARWICK,  EARL  OF,  233. 
WASHINGTON,  GEORGE,  189. 
WATTS,  ISAAC,  Divine  Songs,  206. 
WAYNE,  ANTHONY,  4. 


WELLS,  CAROLYN,  rhymed  letter  of,  to 
author,  227,  228. 

WELLS,  GABRIEL,  217. 

WELLS,  H.  G.,  53. 

WESTMINSTER  ABBEY,  "  artistic  abom- 
inations" in,  200. 

WESTMINSTER  HALL,  trial  of  Hastings 
in,  12/. 

WHEATLEY,  H.  B.,  68. 

WHITE,  REV.  GILBERT,  Natural  His- 
tory of  Selborne,  229,  230. 

WHITE,  REV.  WILLIAM,  189. 

WHITE,  W.  A.,  214,  216,  218,  220. 

WHITMAN,  WALT,  inspires  a  Christmas 
card,  38,  39;  his  personality,  141; 
present  status  of,  141,  142;  H.  Jack- 
son quoted  on,  142 ;  celebration  of  the 
centenary  of  his  birth,  143,  144; 
author's  opinion  of,  144,  145 ;  his 
life  in  Camden,  N.  J.,  145,  146,  153, 
154;  his  funeral,  146;  author's  visit 
to,  146,  147 ;  sale  of  Buck  collection, 
147 ;  his  keen  advertising  sense,  149, 
150 ;  a  nurse  in  Washington,  151 ; 
his  bibliographical  status,  151 ; 
quoted,  on  history  of  third  edition  of 
Leaves  of  Grass,  152,  153 ;  his  works 
other  than  Leaves  of  Grass  neglected, 
153;  more  admired  in  England  than 
in  U.  S.,  154;  and  Mrs.  Gilchrist, 
154-156;  his  love  of  flattery,  155; 
his  literary  judgments,  157;  quoted, 
on  Dr.  Johnson,  157,  158;  Traubel 
his  Boswell,  158;  his  future  fame, 
159;  37. 

Leaves  of  Grass:  autographed  copies 
of,  146 ;  first  edition  of,  147-149,  and 
Mosher's  reprint,  147;  second  edi- 
tion of,  and  Emerson's  message,  149, 
150;  severe  criticism  of,  150;  third 
edition  of,  151-153 ;  later  editions  of, 
153,  154. 

WHITMANIANA,  sale  of  Pratt  collection 
of,  140,  141. 

WIDENER,  HARRY  E.,  his  library,  193, 
194;  his  death,  194;  183,  184,  185, 
192. 


INDEX 


267 


WIDENER,    P.   A.    B.,   his   gallery   at 

Lynnewood  Hall,  192,  193;  183,  184. 

185. 
WILDE,  OSCAR,  MS.  of  "The  Grave  of 

Keats,"  122,  123;  114. 
WILHELM  II,  26. 
WILLETT,  MR.,  head  surgeon  of"  Bart's," 

164,  165,  168,  172,  173,  175,  176. 
WILLIAM  OF  WYKEHAM,  228. 
WILSON,  WOODROW,  53,  ISO/.,  135  n., 

137,  139  n.,  247,  255. 
WINCHESTER    (England)    CATHEDRAL, 

228,  229. 

WINSHIP,  GEORGE  P.,  43. 
WISE,  THOMAS  J.,  114. 


WOLLSTONECRAFT,  MART,  Original 
Stories,  etc.,  212. 

WORDSWORTH,  WILLIAM,  soporific  qual- 
ity of  his  Excursion,  144;  131. 

WORTHINGTON,    R.,    152,    153. 

WYNDHAM,  WILLIAM,  15. 
WTSS,  RODOLPHE,    The  Suriss  Family 
Robinson,  65. 

YOUNG,     EDWARD,     Night     Thoughts, 

Blake's  illustrations  for,  216. 
YOUNG,  SQUIRE,  31,  32. 

ZAHN,  MABEL,  77. 


McGRATH-SHERRILL  PRESS 
BOSTON 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  899  671     2 


SOU 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
LIBRARY 

LOS  ANGELES,  CALIF, 


